


burnt sage and a forest of bygones

by fragileanimals



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Helheimr | Hel (Realm), Niflheimr | Niflheim, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), References to Norse Religion & Lore, The Gang (Thor) Goes To Hel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: “Loki saved my life,” Thor says, and in the gravity of his words the room falls unutterably silent. “He died for me, painfully and in terror, and in his eternal rest has been separated from all those he once knew.” Swallowing hard, “To seek him in Hel seems the least I can do to remedy that.”(Or:His father's men had attempted resurrections in the stories of old. Why shouldn't Thor?)





	1. heroes for ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song "A Comet Appears" by The Shins, and each chapter title is derived from "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd.
> 
> Also, a small note. When I started writing this, after seeing the movie twice, I was under the impression that all of Asgard had been destroyed in the first few minutes of the movie-- half by Thanos, and the other half when the ship exploded. This story operates under Thor's assumption that either they are all dead, which may or may not actually be true-- both in the story and in the MCU. We'll see!
> 
> Many thanks to Kat (@sunflowerspier on Twitter) for being such a helpful and kind beta!

_After the last of his people have stumbled away to a restless sleep, Thor stands on the bridge and looks out at the stars. It is distractingly beautiful, the cosmos— the way the nebulae swirl in shimmering clouds, the colors so bright and bursting behind his eyelids. From here, one cannot feel the cold, one cannot fathom how empty he knows it to be. They are a long way from anyone, he thinks._

_He has been king only a few hours yet, but the sudden burden of it drives into him like a physical weight, threatening to send him buckling into the deck. As the elation of their narrow escape fades, reality begins to settle in, cold and dark as a dying star._

_As sanguine a face as he had presented to the people, Thor knows their situation is dire. There are so few of them left, but supplies are even fewer— hardly enough to sustain a few hundred, much less a few thousand. Worse still, the Statesman is not equipped for hyperspace transport, and Earth is yet several weeks away. If they provision strictly, if they ration from the outset, he thinks, they may survive, but it will be very close—_

_“Come now, Brother.” A familiar voice interrupts his thoughts. “It’s a bit early to be overthinking your kingly duties, is it not? You’ve your entire reign for that.”_

_Thor turns to see his brother’s sly grin, and even in his trepidation cannot prevent the answering smile that spreads across his face._

_“Unfortunately, not all can be as clever as you, Brother,” he says, after a moment, as Loki comes to stand beside him. “Some of us must take the circuitous route to knowledge.”_

_His brother scoffs, hands clasped behind his back, but Thor notes the way his chin raises ever so slightly. “I suppose not,” Loki allows. “Fortunately for you, I have a wealth of experience when it comes to ruling, and am, as always, more than happy to illuminate your errors.”_

_“How very kind,” Thor says, dryly. “One might almost forget that you have this experience only because you exiled the All-Father to Midgard and usurped the throne in his disguise.”_

_Loki shrugs one shoulder, a particular glint in his eye— but does not deny it._

_“What,” Thor says, feigning surprise, “no sharp retort from the God of Mischief?”_

_“It merely occurs to me,” Loki replies, loftily, “that, seeing as you are my only remaining family, as well as my king, it may be a wise effort to curb my tongue with more frequency.”_

_“Ah,” Thor says, jostling his shoulder with his own, as he had when they were children. “You do not want to admit that I am right.”_

_“Don’t be daft,” Loki sniffs, leaning away._

_They go quiet for a minute, watching the brilliant dust curl around the viewport._

_Then, “I could not have done this today without your help, Brother,” Thor says, low. “The people of Asgard owe you a great debt— as do I.”_

_Loki gives a dismissive wave of his hand, as though embarrassed by Thor’s gratitude. “Oh, mention it not,” he says, lightly. “I could hardly have entrusted the total destruction our home planet to you alone, could I? There is no doubt in my mind you’d have found a way to ruin even that.”_

_“Still,” Thor says, ignoring the jibe, his brother’s neat attempt to maneuver around the subject, “your people are grateful.”_

_Loki shifts his weight. “They are your people now, are they not?”_

_Thor suppresses a sigh— wishing, hardly for the first time, that he were able to shake his brother into understanding his own value. But all he says is, “In truth, I cannot yet see them as anything other than Father’s subjects. These are hardly the circumstances under which I expected to assume the throne.”_

_“To be fair,” Loki says, turning to him with the ghost of a smile, “even I had not anticipated your crowning would follow the return of a long-lost sister, the subsequent invasion of her undead army, and the ultimate annihilation of Asgard by Surtr’s flaming sword. That is a bit extreme, even for me.”_

_“A bit extreme for anyone, I think,” Thor says. Then, with a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his tired eyes, “Oh, I wish Father were here. I could do with his advice.”_

_Loki says nothing, but his eyebrow arches ever so slightly._

_“I know his faults are many,” Thor continues, quickly, “but when we were children I thought him the wisest man who ever lived. All I ever wanted was to be like him.” A wise and noble king, a good father. It had been a simpler time, uncluttered by nuance or suspicion._

_“The most deceptive man who ever lived, perhaps,” Loki says, drily, leaning against the large window, looking back to the stars. Then, “You don’t need him, you know,” he says. “Father. For all your—” He makes a vaguely insulting gesture in the general direction of Thor’s person, “—you already are wiser than he ever was.”_

_“I am rather afraid you overestimate my abilities, Brother,” Thor says, unable to keep the surprise from his voice._

_“Perhaps,” Loki says, with an easy shrug. “But I suspect not. In any case, the people don’t have Odin, even if they did need him. They have you.”_

_“And yet I fear they do not yet trust me,” Thor says. “Not as they did Father. Or even you, in his disguise.”_

_“Well, they shall have to learn, shall they not?” Loki says, beginning to sound irritated, the conversation venturing nearer to significance than perhaps he might appreciate. “You have the support of Heimdall, whom the people certainly trust, as well as the Valkyrie and our friends from Sakaar. Additionally…” He mutters something else, under his breath. Something Thor nearly doesn’t catch._

_“What was that?” Thor asks, tapping his ear, trying — and failing — to keep the amusement from his face even as a certain warmth settles in his stomach._

_“I am well aware it is only your eye that has lost its function, and not your ear,” Loki huffs. “As such, I see no need to repeat myself.”_

_The smile that spreads across Thor’s face feels a bit like dawn. Clasping a hand over his brother’s shoulder, he squeezes once, just tight enough to make him squirm like a ruffled Midgardian feline._

_“You’re right, Loki,” he says, and for a moment it’s as old times, glinting green eyes on a single blue. “I do have you.”_

 

* * *

 

When the debris settles, when the vanished have been raised from dust and Thanos is finally, truly no more, Thor is left holding a great many pieces of an obsoleted life.

Initially, he returns to New York City. After Wakanda, it is the location with the most significant damage— and since Loki’s invasion years back, he’s felt a certain responsibility toward the city. Having been unable to protect it from attack twice now, the least he can do now is help clear the wreckage. More than that, however, New York holds the new Avengers facility and nearly all his Midgardian friends. It is the place he most belongs, best fits, now that his planet and his people are no more.

It is a sort of strange and terrifying limbo, to be the sole survivor of his kind. Having passed his youth as Odinson, in carefree fraternity with his brother, the Lady Sif, and the Warriors Three, Thor has never known a solitude so acute as this. Not even when he had been first banished to Midgard had he felt so utterly forsaken; as far as he had been from the comforts of home, he had never considered himself any more than a visitor to the planet, an unfortunate traveler attempting to earn his way back home. Home had still _existed_ — it had been inaccessible, but not lost, a distant sight for which he had only had to look into the glimmering night sky.

Now it seems the sight of the stars remains only to grieve him. Though his mortal friends may fail to detect it, there is for him a noticeable absence in the night, an unpatched hole where his realm had been. It throbs like a distant ache; this corner of the universe that is a little bit duller, a little bit darker for having lost Asgard— and, along with it, everything Thor had ever known.

Most days that knowledge is more than any one person, even one such a he, can bear. So he does the only thing he knows how: he throws himself into the work, into the effort of rebuilding until the sweat spills into his mismatched eyes and his muscles burn in protest. Rising each day with the dawn, he heads into the city with nothing more than his two hands and the will to make things right; by night it is all he can do to stumble into a halfhearted shower and then to a restless sleep, inevitable plagued by the faces of the dead, always weeping and never at peace.

 

* * *

 

To their credit, his friends rally around him as best they can. In an incredible yet unsurprising stroke of generosity, Stark opens to him not only the Avengers facility but also his personal home, so that he will not have to seek out living arrangements, Captain Rogers spends his precious few free nights letting him win at cards, Agent Romanoff teaches him Russian— teaches it truly, without letting him rely on the All-Speak. He, Barnes, Sergeant Rhodes, and Banner find as many ways as they can to beat each other into the grass, and then some. Even Rabbit had been by some weeks back, with an offer equal parts surprising and generous.

It had been early morning, the late summer sun not yet having broken through the skyline. Thor had been on his way to the construction site, traveling his usual route through the park, admiring the vibrant flora— when a sudden hum had begun in his jaw, increasing in intensity until his teeth had knocked together and his ears rang. Looking up, he’d been just in time to see the ship descend awkwardly below the treetops, jostling branches as it went.

It had alighted in a vast patch of grass mere yards from where he stood, and in that moment he had wished desperately for Stormbreaker, cursing himself for so foolishly leaving it behind. Gasps from the joggers on the trail beside him as he had weighed his options, _stay or go_ — but then the doors at the top of the ramp had creaked open, and out had strolled his friend.

“Rabbit!” he had exclaimed, his apprehension melting into genuine joy as he recognized the furry creature. Crossing the lawn in three long strides, he’d leaned down, hand extended in greeting. 

“How do you fare?” Thor had asked, as Rabbit had clasped it, giving it a firm shake.

“Okay, I think,” his friend had replied, running a self-conscious paw over the nicked ear now lying half-flattened against the side of his head. “All things considered.” He had paused, then indicated the ship behind him. “We’re on our way out, actually— back into the Great Unknown, and all that.”

“That sounds wonderful, Rabbit,” Thor had said, with a smile. “To where are you headed?”

Rabbit had only shrugged. “No idea. That’s up to the boss-man.” 

Thor had puzzled over that for a moment, before remembering Quill. He had only recently been made aware of the true captain of the _Benatar_. “Ah. I see.”

A flash of red had caught his attention, and he’d looked up to find the other man standing in the entrance to the ship, his leather jacket hanging uncharacteristically loose about his shoulders. The bags under his eyes had been visible even from a distance, and suddenly Thor had remembered he, too, mourned. He’d given him a small, sympathetic wave, then turned back to his friend. 

“He seems a good captain,” Thor had said. “I am certain he will choose a noble target.”

Rabbit had made a noncommittal noise. “Yeah, he’s not so bad.” Then, after a pause, “Anyway, the reason I’m here, is… we were kinda wondering if you’d want to come with.”

Thor’s brow had furrowed in surprise. “Come with you to space?” he’d asked.

“Yep,” Rabbit had said. “You interested? We got an extra cabin on board, real nice— Well, not real nice, but livable, you know?”

“What would I do for work?”

Rabbit had shrugged. “Whatever needs doing. We got a lot of laundry, and, with all this Thanos nonsense, Groot’s behind on his schoolwork…”

He had continued on, but Thor had only heard pieces, considering the offer. Part of him had ached with the desire to get off this planet and never return; to say goodbye to the place he had met Jane, had met Darcy and Erik, had known friendship and sorrow and desolation and love. To leave the city his brother had crumbled behind, to bid farewell to being the last of his kind in a world full of strangers and forge for himself another life somewhere new. 

But this desire had burnt bright only for a second before reality had spilled in. However deep his sorrow, he had made a commitment to this world. He had bound himself in word and deed to the Avengers and could not renege on his promises. He may not have been a king by practice, but he could yet be one in action. And, after all: Midgard was the only home he had left. 

“I thank you for your offer, kind Rabbit,” he had said, slowly, his eyes again on the makeshift craft, “but I believe for now I must make my home here.”

“So, just to confirm, that’s a no,” Rabbit had said, crossing his small arms over his chest.

“It’s a no,” Thor had agreed, leaning down to grasp his shoulder. “For now, at least. But I wish you all luck and safe passage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rabbit had said, and Thor had been touched by the genuine disappointment in his tone. “Suit yourself,” he had said. “You just take care, all right?”

At that, Thor had smiled. “I promise.”

As the craft had risen once again above the trees, the movement of the engines stirring the leaves, something in his chest had tugged free.

 

* * *

 

When no more debris remains to be cleared, he finds work as a volunteer in one of several displacement shelters located sporadically across the city. Even in the stagnant heat of summer these places, housed in former school gymnasiums and church basements, are full to bursting with family and friends desperate to know the fate of loved ones. At first, the noise alone is overwhelming— people jostling over one another, jockeying for position in line; by the time they reach him, many are exasperated, bad-tempered, sweaty, demanding. Situations exacerbated by the fact he cannot often give the information they require— locations remain unknown, cellular numbers have been discontinued, buildings no longer stand where they once had. The amount of grainy photographs he has peered at, trying to make sense of the black-and-white dots, must number in the thousands.

All too often the only answer he can offer is a gentle, “Perhaps try again tomorrow.” This is the worst part by far: watching the faces crumple and being unable to remedy the situation.

And yet, in the midst of the chaos and the heartbreak, there is joy to be found. For every person he must turn away, there is one he is able to help, even if all he can provide is a flimsy slip of paper with a number or an address. For every daughter searching fruitlessly for her mother, there is a husband who, upon spotting his wife, leaps the table to cross the room and hold her fast. Reunited families cluster in knots, clinging to one another and weeping. Once, Thor watches a pair of young boys — twins, from the look of it — find each other in the crowd, tumbling over one another like puppies as a lump rises in his throat. 

In a better life, he might have performed this role for his own people. Asgard might have alighted safely on Earth, might have been given a small plot to survive on where the people could have flourished, where they could have approached him not as a king, but as one in their service. A ruler who cared for each and every one of their troubles. He aches still to be that king.

Perhaps in another world, in another time, this had been or would be his fate. But in this one it is not, and it is all he can do to sit in a hard plastic chair opposite the desperate masses, one more solitary refugee, similar and yet much more different than they can possibly know.

 

* * *

 

Time passes, and the displacement centers around the city slowly begin to shutter their doors. As acceptance sets in and mourning begins, the stream of frantic people slows to a trickle, before finally drying up altogether. Eventually the sports centers, churches, and stadiums close their doors entirely to revert back to their former purposes, and Thor is left with nothing but time.

It is ultimately a good sign, he supposes. Most people now have closure; they have either found the friends and family they had sought or have had the opportunity to begin the grieving process. Something close to envy knots in his stomach— he has lost so many, yet lacks a single body to burn. To send off, to ensure the spirit inside would make its way wholly to the afterlife.

It feels very much like impotence, to be entirely unable to do more for the souls of his murdered people than to sink to his knees and utter the Warrior’s Prayer— but it’s all he _can_ do, so he does it. Says it again and again, trying to keep from forgetting a single person, until the words become ash on his tongue.

With each repetition, the meaning of the prayer further eludes him. Even if it had delivered them them into the sacred halls of Valhalla, there had been no glory in the slaughter of his defenseless people. There had been no glory in the destruction of a desperate cluster of refugees whose home planet had collapsed in front of their very eyes, nor in his brother’s death— only desperation, and defiance, and the sharp crack of bone. 

In time he ceases to pray altogether. Better not to say the holy words at all than to profane them with unbelief. 

Furthermore, the question remains: If all the gods of Asgard are dead, to whom is he to pray?

 

* * *

 

“You’re having a crisis of faith,” Rogers informs Thor, kindly, when he shares a few of these thoughts over a draught one night. “I saw it a lot when I was in the war. Guys see a lot of stuff happen in battle— awful, nasty stuff nobody should ever have to see. They lose people, and, when they think about it, they get low. They have a hard time finding the God they believed in — or the cause, or whatever — in the middle of a war.”

It seems a particularly concise term to describe the magnitude of the doubt and despondency he feels, but Thor cannot outright deny it. When his family had been alive, when his father had sat on the throne, he had had no reason to doubt the stories of Asgard. The stories of the ancient times and of the gods, the Norns who has had their hands in everything, who had nourished and pruned the World Tree. They had been his childhood tales, his comforts, his truth, his history. 

How foolish at all seems, now that it has crumbled into dust.

“These men that you knew…” He stares into his drink, watching as the amber particles filter under the overhead light. “Did they find their faith again, after the war?”

“Well, I wasn’t around so much for that part,” Captain Rogers says, wryly, and Thor remembers, wants to kick himself. Then, weaving his fingers together on the tabletop, “But, I think… it depended. It depends.”

“On what does it depend?” Thor asks.

“On…” Rogers pauses, shrugs. “On how much they still wanted to believe, I guess.” When he looks back up at Thor, his eyes are knowing. “How much anybody does.”

“My father once told me,” Thor says, slowly, “that Asgard is not a place, but a people. As did Heimdall, the all-seer, sentry of the Bifrost— my friend. They said that wherever the people of Asgard populate— that that is Asgard, not merely the place we once called home.”

“They sound like wise men,” Rogers says, carefully, leaning back in his chair. He takes a sip of his beer as he waits for Thor to continue.

“They were,” Thor says, the dull blade of grief twisting in his chest. More deaths he had witnessed, been unable to stop. “Heimdall especially. But now they are no more, along with the rest of my people. Nothing of Asgard yet exists. Tell me,” he says, “how can a civilization continue when all its people are dead?”

“You’re still here,” Rogers counters. “That’s something.”

“I am the last,” Thor says, with a little humorless smile. “And I shall not live forever. Upon my death, Asgard will become extinct.” As soon as he speaks the words aloud he knows them to be true.

“Look,” Rogers says, after thinking a moment. “I know it’s tough to be that guy. To be the only one to come back. The only one who remembers a time, a place. A people.” He gives Thor a small smile. “A song. But eventually, as tough as it is, you have to learn to live in the world you’re in. Not the one you wish you were in.”

Thor considers the mahogany table before him, running a finger down the length where two planks meet. This has not been one of his particular strengths of late. He much prefers to attempt to forget the situation, to work himself so hard he has no time to think on it. But he knows his friend is right— he must reconcile the disappointment, the heartbreak, and the sooner the better. Still, a small voice in his mind whispers, _When he had come back from the dead, he, at least, had still had his race._

Rogers must read something similar on his face, because he says, “I know our situations aren’t exactly the same. Some things I can’t speak on. Just— These are some things I’ve learned in the process.”

“I thank you for your advice, my friend,” Thor says, feeling badly that he’d been so easily read. “I shall ponder it.” 

“Ah, don’t mention it,” says the captain, rubbing the back of his neck as though sheepish, “If you want somebody more qualified to talk to, Sam’s great with this stuff. Way better than me.”

“Nonsense,” Thor says, earnest. “You’ve been very—“

He stops. 

A feeling like a sudden wind passes by his face, rustling his lengthening hair and tracing a chill up the back of his neck. Nothing else in the room appears changed, but there’s a sudden weight to the air, an electricity that sends sparks up and down his fingers. Another night, he might simply write it off as an errant breeze, but there is only one problem: There are no windows open.

 _Thor Odinson,_ murmurs something unseen, into his ear.

Eyes narrowing, Rogers asks, “Thor?”

“Something’s here.” He stands abruptly, sending the chair legs scraping across the tile beneath him. The hairs on his arms prickle, as though someone has let out a cold breath very near his skin. 

“What do you mean?” Rogers asks, standing too. “Who’s here?”

He does not reply immediately. Gripping the handle of Stormbreaker in one hand, he turns a quick circle, searching for that which had called his attention. After an agonizing moment it is clear there is no one else present— yet still, something is different. Something’s wrong.

“Thor,” Rogers says, louder this time. “What’s going on?”

He turns to his friend, all the while feeling the distinct sensation of a pair of eyes at his back. In the shadows over the captain’s shoulder seems to rise a shape, long and ominous— but when his eyes adjust, he realizes it is only a coat rack.

“I…” He hesitates, casting about for an explanation, cognizant that the captain watches him, brow furrowed with concern. 

Before he can speak further, the outdoor floodlights come on. 

Rogers shoots him a look. “Aren’t those—“

“Activated by motion,” Thor says, feeling a cold knot settle in his gut. “I believe they are.”

“I think we’d better get down there and check it out.”

Pausing a moment only so that the captain may fetch his shield, they make their way quickly onto the lawn. A preliminary perimeter sweep finds the electric fences humming and unbroken, cameras on every post blinking undisturbed. No tracks disturb the grass apart from their own; hardly anything stirs in the absence of breeze.

“Could be a fluke,” the captain says, scratching the back of his head. Looking at the floodlights, which remain stubbornly on. “Even Tony’s equipment has been known to go haywire occasionally.”

“Something was here,” Thor says, firmly. “I am certain of it.” He had heard it speak his name.

Rogers doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he says, “All right, we’ll split up. Cover more ground that way. We’ll meet back here in ten, and if you see anything, shout.”

Thor nods, and they part.

The search is slow going at first. The night is dark, and the white beams from the sensors casts the landscape in an ominous light. Many a shadow seems to move in the corner of his vision, only to be the pooling dark of a building or the silhouette of a tree.

By the time the ten minutes have run out, the sum total of his efforts are a few startled squirrels. As far as he can tell, the captain must not have found anything, either, having heard nothing from him.

He’s about to turn back in defeat when a sound comes, like the tinkle of broken glass. Whirling around, he spots a burnt-out bulb directly behind him, one in a long line of lampposts that spans the border of the field.

Frowning, he takes a step forward to investigate— and then the sound comes again, directly above his head. Throwing an arm up, he shields his face from the falling remains of another broken bulb. Before he has a moment to process it, the next bulb in the line explodes.

Then another, and another. He watches, still as a statue, as one by one the lamps flicker out, until there is only a single light at the end of the line beaming weakly across the darkness.

“Captain?” he calls, turning back. There is no reply. He is at the very border of the lawn, where sparse trees thicken into forest. Beyond the border, the night is impenetrably dark. He hesitates, lowering his arm, looking once more in puzzlement at the final remaining bulb.

It happens like this, in the span of a second: He blinks. He blinks, and the intruder is not there, and he opens his eyes and she stands half-illuminated in the glow of the lamp.

“Who goes there?” he asks, Stormbreaker angled out slightly in warning. “Show yourself.”

When she steps fully into the light, his breath catches in his throat. The woman before him is bent with age, dressed in a cloak so fine he might have thought it Asgardian had he not known better. The lines in her wrinkled cheeks are as fine as the hair that spills over her shoulders unchecked, and momentarily he’s transfixed by the flickering of the lights behind her. 

“You there,” he says, warily. “Are you aware that you trespass upon this property?”

She does not reply, but takes a step back, again concealing herself in shadow. Is it his imagination, or does a simper curl those thin lips?

“Do not make any further movement,” he says, “or I shall be forced to apprehend—” 

But she’s moving before he can even finish the sentence, shifting in flashes too sharp for her age, too quick to be human until only the tail end of her cloak is visible as it disappears around the corner of the nearest warehouse.

Thor grits his teeth, and follows.

As he rounds the building after her, an unsettled nausea builds briefly in his stomach, not dissimilar to the sensation he’d experienced in the wizard-doctor’s Sanctum Sanctorum. He shakes it off.

The woman is waiting so close around that he must stop short to keep from knocking her over. Up close, she’s even older, smaller and more frail than she had seemed from a distance, gnarled hands folded serenely. The cold wash of the remaining motion sensor illuminate the webs and cracks upon her wrinkled face, making her clouded eyes — blind, he realizes — appear to glow.

“Who are you?” he demands, unable to prevent the agitated sparks of electricity that dance across his palms. “What is your purpose here?”

For a moment she says nothing, and the air is heavy with the familiar weight of magic.

The crone smiles wide. “You mean to say,” she says, finally, in a voice that echoes in his mind as the hissing of a dozen coiled snakes, “you do not know what I am, son of Odin?”

“I do not,” he says, fingers clenched so tight around Stormbreaker they are nearly numb. “But it is clear you know me. I heard you speak my name once before, in the kitchen. Thus I will ask you only once: How do you know my name?”

She inclines her head toward his axe, the movement sharp and predatory. “With a weapon such as that,” she says, “who else could you possibly be?”

Reaching out, she extends a withered arm toward the branch of the nearest tree. After a moment the branch bends back toward her in kind, depositing a perfectly ripe pear into her hand— though it is long out of season. She takes a large bite with crooked teeth, letting the sweet juice dribble down her chin as understanding dawns on him.

“You’re a vǫlva,” he says, slowly. A seeress, a spækona from his father’s stories— neither living nor truly dead, and all the more dangerous for it. 

“And you, boy,” she says, appraisingly, around the pear, “are smarter than you look.”

“I was under the impression the volvur had all gone,” he says, barely acknowledging the slight. “There have not been recorded sightings, at least on Midgard, in many centuries.”

A darkness passes across the seeress’ face. “It is true, our numbers dwindle,” she says. Disapproving, “Even more so since the destruction of our home, in which I am told _you_ played a crucial role, son of Odin.”

“Ah,” he says, “so that is why you are here. Tearing his eyes away from her luminous face, he drops his gaze to the ground. “Vengeance, is that why you have come? Rest assured, my good woman,” his voice tinged with no small amount of bitterness, “none regrets the necessity of that action more than I.”

She clucks her tongue at him. “I would not come over something so inevitable, foolish boy. I am here,” she says, “on behalf of your brother.”

 

* * *

 

He feels it at the last moment when his knees give out, only barely managing to catch himself before he lands in the dirt. There’s a sudden lightness in his hand, and he realizes he’s dropped his axe in the dewy grass.

“Loki?” is all he says, hoarsely. “You’ve spoken to Loki?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“How so?” Thor asks. “Say it plainly, good seer. Have you conversed with him or not?”

She shakes her head slightly, lips thinned. “He cries out in dreams only— dreams I am certain he himself is most unaware of. His power is strong, even in death.”

“How shall I contact him?” Thor asks, an edge of desperation in his tone. “At least to respond to him in Valhalla, to let him know that I am here?”

With a graceful movement of her wrinkled hands, the seeress conjures a image in the air before him. A shape he recognizes to be the world tree, wreathed in flickering green light. One of the three roots glows faintly, almost pulsing— and then the perspective shifts, and suddenly his brother stares out at him with his usual rancor. Her next words cut him to the bone.

“As a jötunn, your brother resides not in Valhalla,” she says, “but in Niflheim, below the third root of Yggdrasil.”

_Hel._

This revelation feels to him as a physical blow. On no occasion had the possibility had entered his mind that his younger brother’s soul had not reunited with those of their parents in Valhalla— and even if it had, the very last consideration would have been his race. 

“Is he—” Thor’s throat is suddenly dry. “Is he alone?” is all he can think to ask.

“Yes, and no,” says the vǫlva. Her conjured projection flickers once more before retreating into her palms. “He is not alone, but neither is he among friends.”

“Then he is as good as alone,” he says. Once again, he is so far from his brother as to be unreachable, and a spark of anger ignites in his chest. “Why do you tell me these things? Do you mean to further deepen my grief?”

“On the contrary,” she chides, revealing a row of small sharp teeth. “I am here to offer you the chance to bring him back.”

For the second time in as many minutes he is rendered speechless. The spækona arches a single white brow. “Have you no thanks to offer me?”

“How can this be possible?” he whispers. His own mother had not dabbled in the arts of resurrection. _The dead must stay dead, Thor,_ she would so gently say, as he had grieved those small childhood losses, the death of a beloved pet. _Anything else is dark magic._ “Would not to do so be to argue the very purpose of the Norns?”

“Under normal circumstances,” says the witch, “it would. But your brother was… a complicated man.”

Thor’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“As such,” the vǫlva continues, “his death attracted a good deal of attention, his final resting a subject of great deliberation. Even now there remain...” She pauses. “Interested parties. Parties who cannot directly interfere, yet would like to see your brother where he belongs. You do know, I presume, the tale of Hermod the Brave?”

Something sparks deep in his memory.

_Þá reið Hermóðr, þar til er hann kom at helgrindum…_

“What is it exactly,” Thor says, slowly, “that you offer me?”

“I can offer you safe passage to Niflheim,” she answers, “the opportunity to return your brother to the living. For a price.”

“Name it.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I would have my brother remain not one day longer in Hel than he must.” 

She brings her long fingers up to her face, crowning those pale eyes with jagged nails. “As you may have noticed,” she says, “in my age, I do not see as well as I used to. A journey such as this is far, and requires the utmost accuracy in navigation. One wrong turn, and—” She gestures brokenly.

It takes him a moment to realize her meaning. Then, “You want my eye.”

“The sight of a god is a powerful thing indeed,” she murmurs. “Most powerful indeed.”

In another world, one in which the stakes were not so deadly serious, he thinks he might have laughed. Having lost one eye to his sister’s wrath, it seems only fitting he sacrifice the second in the redemption of his brother. 

Though the prospect is hardly appealing, if the seeress speaks true, he will gain in return ever so much more than he will have lost. And he will not be left completely sightless— he’ll still have Rabbit’s artificial eye.

“If what you say is true, you shall have it,” he promises. “But in return I want your sworn oath that this will bring my brother back to me. Or, so help me, _witch_ ,” he said, voice pitched low, bending down so that he is level with her face, “I will search the nine realms until I find you. And when I do, it will not be pleasant.”

At the threat, a dark shadow slips across her milky eyes, but then the vǫlva bows low. “You have my word, young king.”

“Good,” he says, straightening again. “How do we proceed?”

A bit eagerly for his taste, the vǫlva curls her fingers. “As soon as I am in possession of my payment, we are free to travel to Niflheim.”

“How soon can we leave?” he asks.

“Now, if you wish it.”

Thor pauses a moment, considering. As much as every fiber of his body itches to undertake the journey this very moment, the more practical part of him — the part Loki had most influenced — knows he must prepare. If there is anything he can glean from Hermod, it’s that a trip such as this is not one to be taken lightly. He will need armor, and weapons, and provisions to last several days if he is to win his brother back from the jaws of Hel. 

“I shall need time to prepare,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “How shall I find you again?”

“Do not concern yourself with that,” she says, her hands making an easy gesture in the air. Is it his imagination, or have the edges of her begun to blur, as the tip of a candle flame? “I shall find you here, in this sport, three days hence. And, do not forget…” Looking over her shoulder, her mouth split in a simper, “Bring my eye.”

He blinks again, and she is gone.

 

* * *

 

He makes his way inside, half-stumbling, punch-drunk from the rush of sudden emotion. He doesn’t even remember Rogers until he puts one foot into the main sitting area and his eyes land on the group of people clustered inside.

They don’t notice him for a moment, all faces turned intently toward Stark. Then Agent Romanoff, standing just to his left, happens to lift her eyes.

Upon spotting him, her mouth falls open momentarily. _“Thor?”_

The rest of the heads swivel toward him, all presenting varying levels of bewilderment— from surprise to outright shock. Stark is there, along with Banner, Rogers, and Romanoff. Sergeant Rhodes as well. It seems as though they’ve all descended upon the kitchen, perhaps for a belated meal, though that doesn’t explain their peculiar state of battle dress. 

“Yes, it is I,” he says, bemused by the stares. Then, turning to Rogers, “Captain, I have discovered what accosted us on the grounds. It is a witch, I believe, and if Asgardian origin...“ He trails off. Instead of intrigue, he is met with silence. 

Finally, Banner sighs, lowering himself into the nearest chair. Hands threading through his greying hair.

“Well,” Stark says, finally, replacing his helmet on the table, “I guess that answers _that_ question.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Agent Romanoff asks, hands on her hips. Voice sharp, though with what he has come to recognize as an undercurrent of concern. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

He frowns. “Where the hell have I— Out on the lawn, of course! A trespasser activated Stark’s security, and the captain and I went to investigate.” Looking expectantly to Rogers, “Have they not been informed of the strange presence I detected on the grounds?”

Rogers looks at him strangely. “Yeah, they have,” he says, “but, Thor, that was hours ago.”

Thor is dumbstruck. “What—”

“Not to mention, during that time, you straight-up disappeared off the security cameras,” Stark adds. “So what happened? Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” Thor says, becoming increasingly confused. “I was on the campus the whole time, just beside the warehouse. The captain and I were separated mere minutes.”

His friends stare at him, expressions ranging from disbelief to concern.

“Thor,” Rogers says, slowly, “you were missing for five hours.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Rogers asks, watching from beside the counter as Thor begins to lay out the necessary provisions for his journey. “You know, going to hell.”

It’s a few hours later, after they’ve all had a chance to decompress and be given a detailed account of Thor’s encounter with the seeress. It’s approaching eight in the morning, and the sun has risen fully now, casting a soft light on their collection of yawning faces.

“I travel first to Niflheim,” Thor corrects, carefully aligning strips roast boar beside one another. “Then to Hel, which is a locality within that realm.”

“Tomato, _tomato_ ,” Stark says, a phrase whose meaning continues to elude him. “You’re still awfully relaxed for a guy who’s about to have a meet-and-greet with the big guy downstairs. Do you have a plan for that, other than _challenge Satan to a fistfight_?”

“Oh, I am quite apprehensive,” Thor assures him, “though not for the reasons you imagine. For one, Asgardian Hel does not hold to the Midgardian tradition of suffering and eternal punishment, nor does it posses he whom you call the Devil. It exists merely because my sister, the Goddess of Death, was owed a portion of the dead.”

Across the room, Banner pales. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, “Hela’s still around?”

“No,” Thor assures him. “As you saw, my sister was destroyed by Surtr during the events of Ragnarok. A jötunn by the name of Helreginn rules over her domain now.”

“Oh, good,” says Banner, looking relieved. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Thor says, with a smile. “She was, most assuredly, the worst.”

“So, just out of curiosity,” Stark says, taking a large bite out of his apple, “if he’s been there all this time, why didn’t you go sooner? Ditto on the ‘No offense.’” When Romanoff glares at him, he flicks an apple seed in her direction. 

Thor’s hands still briefly around a plastic waterskin. “Until a few days ago, I had assumed Loki to be in Valhalla,” he says, slightly subdued. “To retrieve a soldier from his or her eternal reward is not looked well upon. It is considered selfish, and is not often done. In addition,” he says, returning to a more normal tone, “there is the matter of transport, to which I have lacked access since the destruction of the Bifrost.”

“Until you met a witch,” Romanoff says, skeptically.

“A vǫlva,” Thor corrects.

“A witch who wants your eye,” Banner adds. “Let’s not forget that part. You’re running out of eyes at an alarming rate, I hope you realize.”

Thor shrugs. “It is a fair payment,” he says. “Nothing comes without cost, and my brother’s life is worth far more to me than a single eye. I’d have offered both of them, if necessary.” In fact, there is a very short list of items he wouldn’t sacrifice in order to rescue Loki.

“Well, as long as you’re okay with it. Romanoff swings her legs, dangling them over the edge of the counter. “So what’s the deal with Valhalla? That sounds more my speed.”

“Valhalla is the eternal dwelling place for warriors who have died honorably in battle,” Thor says, around the sudden lump in his throat. “It is said to be a place of golden roofs and feasting, celebration unending. It is every warrior’s hope to find himself there upon waking from his mortal death.”

“Thor, I don’t mean to pry, and I know you’ve got a lot to think about,” Rogers says, voice gentle. “But if Loki died saving you, as you said, why isn’t he there?”

Thor fiddles with an apple for a moment, deciding what is proper to disclose without his brother’s permission.

“As I have mentioned before,” he says, “my brother was adopted from another realm. Though Asgardian by rearing, he is not so by race, and thus he does not have access to the sacred hall of Valhalla, where our parents now reside.”

Rogers blinks. “That’s terrible.”

“Some good old-fashioned alien racism for you,” Stark says, contemplative. “And here I was thinking that that was an American invention.”

Thor gives him a smile devoid of any humor. “Certainly not.”

“So what’s the deal, then?” Banner pipes up. “You just bring him back here, like nothing ever happened?”

“About that,” Stark begins. “At the risk of sounding like a jerk—“

“Like more of a jerk,” Romanoff cuts in, sardonic.

“—are we absolutely resurrecting the guy who tried to, you know, _enslave the population_ a few years back is such a great idea?” At the captain’s look, he says, “I feel like it’s a fair question.”

“It is most fair,” Thor says, graciously, “especially as you have been so kind as to allow me my own chambers in your apartments. But I have made up my mind to retrieve my brother. With respect, if you will not have him — which is, of course, your prerogative — I shall find other accommodations for us.”

“Look,” Stark says, putting his hands up, “I’m just asking—”

“Time out.” Rogers raises his hands in a T-shape. “I’m sure Tony’s not going to kick you out. I think we all just want to be sure the risks don’t outweigh the benefits.”

“That I cannot say with absolute certainty,” Thor says, honestly. “But he is my brother.”

“Your brother, who invaded New York City not too long ago, if memory serves,” the Black Widow interjects, expression unreadable.

Stark shoots her a look that says, _What the hell?_

“He saved my life,” Thor says, and in the gravity of his words the kitchen falls unutterably silent. “He died for me, painfully and in terror, and in his eternal rest has been separated from all those he once knew.” Swallowing hard, “This seems the least I can do to try to remedy that.”

“You know we won’t turn away any family of yours, Thor,” says Rogers, gentler. “And, if you say Loki’s no longer a threat, well—” He casts a look around the room, meeting all eyes, some more hesitant than others. “We trust you.”

“Right,” Stark acquiesces. “Though, will that mean an ankle monitor when he’s on Avengers property? Maybe. Jury’s still out. I’m just saying.”

“Thank you, my friends,” Thor says, clapping Stark on the shoulder, having absorbed none of what he’d said. Summoning a smile, he collects the last of his provisions, dropping them into his pack, “I appreciate the support you have so willingly provided. Norns willing, I shall see you all before the new moon.”

As he makes his way down the hall, he just barely hears Romanoff say, “When the hell is that?”

 

* * *

 

The night before his journey is set to begin, sleep does not come easily to Thor. He knows in the coming days he will need his strength, that it may be a time before he is again afforded the opportunity to rest, but for all this reasoning he cannot seem to convince his body of it. Limbs restless and chest tight, he passes hour after hour staring at the ceiling, The only thought in his mind is: If all goes well, he could be reunited with his brother mere days from now.

And yet, so much must happen before. Any number of difficulties lie between himself and Loki, any number of his own follies that might keep them apart. He thinks of Hermod, how close he had come to rescuing his brother-in-arms, only to fail. He does not think he could survive such a loss.

He must not fail.

 

* * *

 

He finds the vǫlva at the edge of the treeline at the predetermined time.

“So, how does this work?” he asks, fingers curling around Stormbreaker’s knotted handle. Feeling slightly discomfited in full battle armor with no one but an old woman and a few grazing deer around, though he’s certain it will be of import soon. “How is this done?”

“I require my payment first,” she answers, gesturing for him to approach. He suppresses a shudder, steeling himself. “Then, to Niflheim. That is,” she says, “unless you’ve lost your courage.”

“I assure you, I have not,” he replies, taking a step forward, steeling himself. When he is within reach, “Take it.” _Brother, I am coming._

The witch smiles. 

Before he can blink, there’s a sharp flash of pain as her bony fingers dig into his eye socket, and then half of his vision goes dark. He blinks several times, adjusting to familiar imbalance of it. Briefly, he longs for his eyepatch, which he must have left aboard the _Benatar_.

“It is done,” she announces. From his good eye, he sees her tuck her charge into her satchel, then stoop to the ground to place a sprig of green at her feet, at the center of a wide circle previously inscribed.

“What is that?“ he asks, curious about the herb. Many a day in his youth had he witnessed Frigga tending to the shoots in her garden, but beyond a vague notion of which were used in healing, he had little knowledge of their actual functions. 

“Sage,” she tells him, straightening. “It will aid in protection on our journey. And,” she says, coming closer, tucking another tendril into a gap in his breastplate armor, “help to ease bereavement.”

Before he can reply, she’s taken his arm, dragging him into the circle. Unpinning her long cloak, she throws it like a shroud around the both of them, allowing no light in altogether. 

“What—” Thor begins, and then the world tilts sickeningly, and they sink into the ground.


	2. the same old grounds

Thor awakes in the dirt with a sharp ringing in his ears.

Briefly he’s disoriented, his own cold breath clouding his vision as he struggles to recall how he had ended up prostrate so on the ground… and then, somewhere above him, the vǫlva clears her throat in impatience.

_Ah._

Spitting out the strands of hair that had fallen across his mouth and nose, he swings upright. Too fast— he hadn’t considered the immediate toll the loss of his eye would take on his balance. For a moment the frosty landscape swims before him.

 _Norns, but it’s cold,_ he thinks, resisting the urge to rub his arms. Though there is no wind to speak of, the present chill manages to cut through both his cloak and his sleeves; already Stormbreaker’s handle begins to grow cold in his grip.

“So this is Niflheim,” he says, and the fog seems to muffle his words, swallowing them whole. It is so dense as to prevent clear sight beyond five meters in each direction.

Beside him, the vǫlva turns her head. Impossibly, the cataracts over her left eye seem to have cleared some, revealing a pale blue iris. “As promised,” she says, “the land of the dead.”

He turns a slow circle, taking in their surroundings. The mist obscures much, but in the distance he can make out craggy shapes— mountains or castles, for all he knows. It is utterly unlike anyplace he has ever been; though the chill and the fog are reminiscent of Jötunheim, Niflheim’s landscape lacks its inherent brutality, the howling darkness. It is the suggestion of hidden things, rather than the promise of outright violence. Grey light filters evenly through the fog, making it impossible to navigate by any star.

“How am I to discern which direction to go?” he asks, brow furrowing. He can hardly distinguish his own hand before his face, much less the road.

In response, the vǫlva raises two fingers to her lips and keens, high and sharp.

For a moment there is only silence. But for the mist whispering past his cheeks, all is still.

Then, far off, the drumbeat of hooves on the ground.

The noise grows impossibly loud, until Thor wonders if perhaps an entire army rides to his aid. Upon a thunderous crescendo a horse bursts through the mist, its wide back covered in sweat-foam, enormous chest heaving.

Thor’s heart skips a beat as he takes in its familiar slate coat, the mane black as pitch.

Finally, “Sleipnir?” he asks, his voice hardly more than a whisper. Turning to the vǫlva in disbelief, “It cannot be.”

“A loan only,” she cautions, but for a moment he thinks her heavy countenance lifts. “From your father.”

Thor’s smile feels like it might crack his face open.

“I had thought never to see him again,” he wonders, running a hand down the horse’s soft forelock. The eight-legged creature is as stately as he’d remembered, and unbidden some of his earliest memories rise to the forefront of his mind— Odin’s powerful arms lifting him onto Sleipnir’s broad back, leading him by the reins over the palace grounds as Thor had clung to the saddle. Learning to tack and to groom when the top of his head had barely reached the horse’s shoulder. Riding in front of Loki, his brother’s small arms clasped around his middle.

“You will need him,” the vǫlva says, and he swallows down the lump in his throat. “It is a long journey to Helreginn’s hall.”

“A worthwhile journey,” says Thor, “requires a noble steed.” As though comprehending, Sleipnir nudges his soft nose into his palm.

“He knows the way,” the vǫlva says. Then, “You should not tarry here long if you wish to reach your brother in a timely manner.”

“You shall accompany us no farther?” he asks.

“My part is finished,” she says, shaking her head. “I have delivered you here. Whether your brother returns with you to Midgard depends solely upon you.”

“I suppose we should be on our way, then,” is all he says, more to Sleipnir than to her, trying not to think too hard on those implications. The horse chuffs eagerly, and he slings his pack over the back of the saddle. After adjusting the straps for his height, he swings himself onto his back. “Once I have found Loki,” he says, “by what manner shall I bring him back?”

The old woman stoops, drawing a rough circle in the dirt with her forefinger. Beckoning him to lean toward her, she pulls the greening herb from his breastplate, grinding it into the center of the circle with her bare foot.

“And if this transport is disturbed while we are away?”

She smiles, showing all her teeth. “Best to hurry,” she says. Pointing down the dirt path, she says, “Travel down and to the north, and you shall find the road to Hel. May Odin give you knowledge on your path, young king,” she said.

Wrapping herself in the cloak once more, she flickers and disappears.

 

* * *

 

Thor rides in the direction she had indicated for a day and a night. Halting only for the barest of sleeps and other bodily needs, he drives Sleipnir forth into the vaporous mist, blind to all direction but the shape of the earthen path.

They travel through rocky valleys, the descending paths dangerously steep, and up again through rounding hills whose peaks always seem to elude him. At times the mist seems to take on shape, curling at his ankles, pressing in. As he had when first in the presence of the vǫlva, he has the distinct impression of being watched; if he looks too long at the wall of fog he imagines faces, reaching fingers. For this reason he keeps his eye turned ahead if he can help it.

Finally the icy weather abates, allowing him sight of the tall frozen grasses on either side. The air is still much too cold for his liking, and is still damp enough to wet his hair and cloak, but these are still bearable— merely physical complaints. He wonders, briefly, if Loki is bothered by the chill.

Around noon of the second day he comes on row of fields upon which a cool sun shines, having emerged in a strange orange hue from the dusky clouds. As he rides by, the purplish tips of the herbs bend toward them, sending up a sharp scent. Remembering the fragility of the single stalk upon the road, he urges Sleipnir faster, knowing his father’s steed is up to the task.

 

* * *

The dirt road is first interrupted on the banks of a wide river, where a bridge with a gleaming golden roof passes high over swirling water below. The current is audible even from a distance, the clatter of the indigo waves on the rocks drowning out nearly all sound, throwing light into his eye.

Upon closer inspection, he finds the current cluttered with weapons— everything from spears to battle axes to oddly, what appears to be an automatic rifle. A steady stream of armaments, all clattering against one another as they flow under the bridge and disappear.

He clutches Stormbreaker a fraction tighter. They have reached the river Gjöll.

Movement on the far side of the bridge draws his attention, and he looks up to see a stately woman, battle-dressed and taller even than he, come to stand in the center of the bridge. Her armor, the same gold as the bridge, shines too bright to look directly upon, and the long sword at her side reminds him of that of the Valkyrie.

She does not move to attack, but neither does it appear she will allow him immediately to pass. With a conscious effort to keep his movements unthreatening, Thor slips from Sleipnir’s back and leads the horse to stand before her. Eight iron horseshoes clatter ungracefully on the metal planks, but much of the sound is lost in the rush of the water below.

The guard studies him a moment before speaking, both hands clasped around the hilt of her sword. Then, “I am Modgud,” she says, “Guardian of the Gjallarbrú. What is your business here, Son of Odin?”

Thor’s eyebrows lift in surprise at having been so easily recognized a second time, but he recovers quickly.

“It seems my reputation precedes me,” he says, with a small smile, inclining his head in deference. “Noble Modgud, I have come to find my brother Loki, who resides in Hel. As such, I humbly request passage for myself and my horse over your fine bridge.”

Her expression is impassive. “From the noise you made simply in crossing this far,” she remarks, “I gather you number yet among the living.”

“I do,” he agrees.

“Then your rightful place is with them,” she says. Her eyes, as dark as her braided flaxen hair is light, bear into him. “Very few living souls have I seen pass through these lands, even fewer with righteous purposes. What is it that you seek within my realm?”

“I seek my brother, as I said.” She appears dissatisfied, and he elaborates, “I seek to retrieve him and return him to the land of the living.”

There’s a moment in which her hand tightens around the grip of her sword, and he fears he will be forced to fight his way across.

But then it slackens, and she says, “As long you do not seek to cause express harm, I cannot stop you.” Tone warning, “But if you should fail, and thus meet an unsatisfactory end, or in the case your brother is deemed unworthy of resurrection, I cannot allow either of you back across.”

“I understand,” Thor says. As she steps aside to let him pass, “Leave that to me, kind guardian. All I ask is that you direct me along the most expedient path to Hel.”

Modgud dips her chin. Pointing down the path, which resumes at the end of the golden bridge, “Follow the road as it descends into the valley,” she says, “taking the right path when it forks. This shall take you into Hel.”

“I thank you for your help, kind Modgud,” he says, mounting Sleipnir once again. “If the Norns be willing, you shall see me again presently, with my brother in tow.”

“May Frigga guide you on your journey,” is all she says, stepping aside to allow him to pass.

Only as Sleipnir steps back onto dry land does it occur to Thor to scan the banks for Nidhogg, but fortunately there is no serpent to be found.

 

* * *

The gates of Hel are visible long before Thor reaches them. Looming high in the distance, the massive stones supporting its doors are built of a white marble so threaded through with grey that where they brush against the clouds, the border is indistinguishable.

He wonders, for a moment, if the wall is Hela’s doing. It doesn’t seem terribly like her to have limited herself to only a portion of the realm, not to mention the color scheme. Before he had died, his father had mentioned her imprisonment in Hel; perhaps someone had ruled before her, just as Helreginn the jötunn now reigns after.

They are perhaps a kilometer away from the gates when a swift black shape bounds out of the fields, hurtling toward them at an alarming speed. At first, it is little more than a blur, and Thor thinks it perhaps some form of otherworldly locomotion— but then it draws close enough for him to make out the massive canine snout, the sharp claws, the bristling tail.

_Garmr._

Fortunately, he hardly needs guide to Sleipnir in what to do; he is, after all, an animal with natural self-preservation instincts. As the preternaturally large wolf approaches, close enough to snap at Sleipnir’s ankles, the horse darts out of range, into the overgrown weeds of the field beside the path.

“Steady,” Thor murmurs, as the animal stumbles on the uneven ground, ears pinned back against his head.

Trailing them, Garmr growls, low and violent. He’s close enough now for Thor to notice the wet patches that darken his fur, thickly red in places.

As the wolf lunges again for the horse’s heels, he half-rears, nearly throwing Thor from the saddle. “Easy, easy!” he says, knocking Garmr back with a blow from the flat side of Stormbreaker. They weave a bit in the field, trying to shake him off, but wherever they go, he follows a few meters behind. Each time he attempts to lead Sleipnir in the direction of the gate, Garmr cuts them off, sharp teeth bared.

 _This isn’t going to work_ , he thinks. It might be possible for them to simply muscle their way through, but the risk of injury seems too great to consider. Killing the wolf would solve his problem in the short-term, but such an act would hardly endear him to his brother’s keepers, as well as leave Hel’s gate vulnerable to attack.

He needs another way. He needs a plan of attack— a real plan. He must trick the beast.

With a tug on the reins and the gentle pressure of his legs, he has Sleipnir to retreat a few steps, to give himself time to think. Then a few more, until they are out of the immediate perimeter. The farther back they move, the softer Garmr’s growling becomes, until it ceases altogether. When they are a good distance away, the wolf sinks back onto his haunches, half-hidden once again in the grass. Ears relaxed but still watchful, those large silver eyes intent on Thor’s person.

 _A trick._ He racks his brain. What would his brother do? He’d use his seidr, of course. But Thor has nothing of the kind— only Sleipnir and Stormbreaker. For a brief moment, he wishes desperately for his lost hammer. Mjolnir, at least, he might have bound to Garmr in some way, preventing further movement without maiming him.

But then comes Odin’s voice in his head: _Are you Thor, the God of Hammers?_

He grits his teeth. _No,_ he thinks, _I am the God of Lightning_. The God of sharp, bright, scorching lightning.

Scorching.

The vague outline of an idea takes shape in his head, stories of old mixing with the one power he calls all his own. If he can strike hard enough, he thinks, the sheer force of it might be able to create a barrier…

Clicking his tongue, he urges Sleipnir farther back, until Garmr is no more than a inky speck on the horizon. Reaching down to tighten the girth, he pats the horse’s side, and the animal practically dances with eagerness.

Once Thor’s secured both the saddle and his belongings behind him, he pauses a moment to settle his breathing. This will either work, or it won’t, he thinks. If it does, he needn’t worry, but if it doesn’t, well. He supposes he’ll be reunited with his parents much sooner than intended.

He hardly presses his heels into Sleipnir’s sides before the horse is off, streaking toward the gate once more in a blaze of limbs and tail.

As they gather speed, Garmr shakes himself once more. Even from a distance, Thor can see the black fur begin to stand on end, can practically hear the hum of his low growl. Once some implicit border has been crossed, he leaps up, tearing toward them once again.

Thor allows him closer, closer— and then, only when he can see the whites of those great eyes does he call the lightning forth. The heavens open up and in a surge of heat and electricity it blazes down in thick sheet, striking not the wolf but the ground between them, all the way to the gate. The force of the strike is so powerful it caves the terrain, creating a rift so deep even Garmr will not be able to easily breach.

As Sleipnir races by, Garmr lets out a series of sharp, unhappy barks.

“I am sorry for this,” Thor tells the wolf, as they pass, growing very near now to the gates. “I know that you have a job to fulfill— but so do I.”

With that, and a quick jerk of the reins, Sleipnir jumps.

The horse’s powerful haunches propel them high into the air, much farther than any ordinary horse would have reached even in dreams. But he is no ordinary horse, and they climb higher, higher until Thor swears he could reach out and brush the titian clouds with his fingertips.

Behind them, Garmr gives one last angry howl— and, to Thor’s dismay, launches himself after them. He soars high into the air beside them, far over the chasm below. Time seems extended as he closes the distance between them, and just as long white teeth start to close around his leg, Thor gives a desperate kick. As he twists in his saddle to avoid the powerful jaw, the swooping feeling in his stomach indicates they’ve begun their final descent. With a yelp the wolf releases him, falling back to the dirt.

Upon landing, Sleipnir’s hooves connect with the ground with such force that it sends him sprawling into the long grass. It knocks the breath from him, and for a moment he simply lies where he lands, eye closed, heart thumping with relief. He lets out a laugh that sounds half-choked even to him.  
Then, a soft warmth where Sleipnir noses into his side.

“I am fine,” he assures the horse, wheezing slightly with exertion. Grabbing onto the edge of the saddle, he drags himself up onto unsteady legs. “Merely bruised.”

He cranes his neck to stare up at the gates behind them, finding them so tall he can barely see to the top.

“Good boy,” he says, wondering. He ruffles Sleipnir’s ears, gathering the reins again in his hand. “Good boy.”

 

* * *

For a while he opts to slow their pace to a slow trot, to allow himself as well as the horse an opportunity to regain their breath. Within the gates, the air has chilled again, cooling the sweat where it lies on his skin.

It is a few hours yet before they encounter their first village. Little more than a hamlet, the cluster of ramshackle roofs and falling-in barns seem to huddle together for protection while aged livestock mill listlessly in the pens. As he rides by, some of the figures inside pause in their routines to watch.

 _They’re merely dead, Thor,_ he thinks sternly to himself, as a certain dread builds in his stomach. _Dead people, not monsters._ As a child in fear of the dark, his mother had assured him the souls of the departed could do him no harm and were nothing to fear, but still he suppresses a shudder as they silently watch him pass, knee deep in the fields.

Farther on, the road splits as Modgud had said it would. A little ways into the right-hand path, a clearing opens up, furred over in soft grass not yet too tall to be uncomfortable. Thor’s body aches, reminding him how long it has been since his last sleep.

Dismounting, he doesn’t bother to bind Sleipnir, simply removes his saddle so he is free to graze. Setting his pack against a raised stump to function as a makeshift pillow, he settles back. From his provisions he draws two apples, one for himself, and one for the horse. This, and a few strips of pork he munches on as Niflheim’s sun descends behind its craggy mountains. It traces a slow path, illuminating the far-off ash trees in burnished gold— and he thinks even this land, from a certain vantage, might be considered beautiful.

 

* * *

 

He awakens several hours later to an insistent jostling at his shoulder.

“Go away,” he mumbles, still half-asleep and thinking himself in his old chambers at the palace. He’d been in the midst of the most pleasant dream; Mother had been there, as well as Father and Loki. It had been his coronation day, hours before any of the troubles had begun, and as he’d stood in the shining hall he had felt the security of his family’s love so sure in his chest that it had nearly burnt him from the inside. With his father staring down at him from the high throne, his mother and brother looking on with love from the dais, he had been certain for the first time in years where he belonged—

His arm is prodded again, and he rolls over with a groan. It cannot yet be morning, he thinks. He’s only just lain down to rest. Upon shifting, he find his pillow curiously hard, and smelling distinctly more like a barnyard than he remembers.

“Thor,” says a voice, and the familiarity of it strikes something deep in his mind.

Opening his eye, he finds a figure bending over him, its face half-cloaked in shadow. On instinct he springs up, instantly alert, groping for Stormbreaker. Behind him, Sleipnir snuffles indignantly, but the voice comes again, _”Thor.”_

He takes a cautious step forward, and the stranger suddenly throws back his hood, revealing long, blue-black hair, dark eyes, and a sharply pointed beard.

For a moment Thor simply stares. Then, _“Hogun?”_

“Yes,” his friend says, his face breaking into a rare smile. “It is I.”

He cannot speak. It’s been too long since he’s seen his friend, but Hogun looks much the same as he remembers, if slightly greyer at the temples, more creased around the eyes.

“I thought that was you,” Hogun says, and his sharp expression is so familiar and so unexpected Thor feels his eye fill momentarily. “But from your coloring I gather you are not yet dead. How have you traveled here?”

“I’ve come to find Loki,” Thor says, too stunned to say anything else. Then, “You’re— here?”

“Hela,” is all he says, with a small shrug.

Something ugly knots in Thor’s stomach. When neither Lady Sif nor the Warriors Three had found him on the _Statesman,_ he had feared the worst, but it was something else altogether to stand beside his murdered friend and know his own sister had committed the act.

“My friend,” he begins, but Hogun holds up a hand.

“This was not your doing,” he says, his look knowing. Thor’s guilt must read plainly on his face. “Let us speak of it no more.”

“I—“ Thor begins, but is interrupted at that moment by Sleipnir’s nose at his shoulder in warning. “Easy,” he says, “It is only Hogun.” Turning to his friend, “You remember my father’s horse?”

Hogun nods. “The finest steed in all Asgard. Envy of the cavalry.”

As though comprehending, Sleipnir nickers, extending his neck cautiously.

“Come,” Hogun says, then, beckoning them forward with a wave of his hand. “I dwell not far from here.”

 

* * *

As they walk, Thor informs Hogun of the events that have passed since the latter’s arrival in Hel. He tells him of Odin’s death, and of Loki’s — real, this time — how he had been visited by a witch and has subsequently come searching for his brother in the realm of the dead. He tells Hogun of Hela’s destruction, and the downfall of Asgard at Surtr’s hands. Somehow, though, he can’t bring himself to detail the fates of the rest of he Asgardians Hogun had given his life to protect; when he asks how Loki had died, Thor gives only vague generalities.

“Your sister told us she had killed you both” Hogun says, “as well as the king. I had not thought to see you again.”

“Ah,” Thor says, smiling. “Such little faith, my friend, I am disappointed.”

Hogun simply shrugs. Then, with the flicker of a smile, “Next time I will wait to see the body.”

Thor throws his head back _lau_ _ghs_.

 

* * *

 

As promised, Hogun’s dwelling is quite near, a small cabin set against a grove of ash trees. It has all the makings of a rustic hunting lodge such as those they would frequent in their youth, but there are also undeniable indications of a woman’s touch— vibrant flora growing along the flagstones, pale curtains hanging in the window. On the approach, Thor spies two little girls in the yard, alternately shrieking and struggling over what appears to be a cloth doll.

Suddenly, as though struck by lightning, he remembers the tidings of his friend’s wedding that had reached him when he had been away, searching the stars for the Infinity Stones. He is rooted to the spot.

“Are those—?”

“Mine. Yes.” Hogun’s gruff voice is tinged with paternal affection.

“They’re lovely,” Thor says, feeling faintly dazed. He had heard nothing of children, and if they were Asgardian, if they were here, it could mean only one thing.

The girls, spotting their father, run to cling to his legs.

“Yrsa, Tola,” Hogun says, as they peep cautiously out at Thor. “Greet your king.”

The pair of them go slack-jawed, and disappear behind their father again.

“Hello,” comes a single tiny voice.

“Oh, no, please, there is no need,” Thor says, distinctly uncomfortable. “In this realm, I am no one’s king.”

He’d meant it merely as a passing comment, but the elder of the two — Yrsa, he thinks — whips her head around and pipes up, “You’ve been to _other_ realms?”

“Do not pester the man,” Hogun murmurs, but Thor kneels so that he is level with the children.

“But of course, my lady,” he says, with utmost gravity. “I have traveled far and wide. How else do you think I lost my eyes?”

“You still have one,” Yrsa points out, with all the precocious airs of a young child.

“Ah, but this one is a mere replacement,” he says. “My true ones were blue.”

The younger girl makes a face, but the elder asks in fascination, “Can you take it out?”

“I suppose I could,” Thor muses, “but then I’d have to have you two lead me about. I may do so, but only if you promise not to lead me into any trees.”

“We can do that!” Yrsa exclaims, after a conferring glance at her sister. But Hogun stops him with a shake of his head and a small smile.  
“You need not do this.”

The girls make twin sounds of disappointment.

“Er, that’s all right,” says Thor, thinking a minute. Then, “Instead, would you like me to tell you the tale of how I befriended a Valkyrie?”

The littler one bobs her head rapidly. When he spares a quick look at his friend, even Hogun looks impressed.

“The story begins,” he says, beckoning them in, hushing his voice to maintain suspense, “when I landed, quite literally, on a planet called Sakaar…”

 

* * *

 

At the midday meal, Hogun‘s wife, a petite woman with honey-colored hair by the name Ashild, comes in from the kitchen with glasses of mead. The three of them sit at the table and watch as the girls play by the hearth, alternately braiding one another’s hair and chasing each other around the thick rug.

“You have a full life here, my friend,” Thor says, to Hogun, the domesticity of it making his chest ache. “I only wish that you could have had it on Asgard, instead of in this place.” I should have been able to protect you, he thinks.

“This was out of of your control,” Hogun says, shaking his head. “But we are happy here. We farm.”  
Hogun wife leans in, her brown eyes kind. “The girls were so young when it happened,” she says, gently touching his arm. “They hardly noticed the difference.”

“Still,” Thor says, “your husband’s service to Asgard merited a place in Valhalla.”

“Perhaps,” Hogun admits. “But at least here, we are all together.”

Thor stares at his hands where they lie folded in his lap. “In that case, I am glad for you.” Then, the thought suddenly striking him, “If I could obtain permission from Helreginn to retrieve your family as well—“

But Hogun simply looks over at his wife, who gives the barest shake of her head. Turning to Thor, “Thank you,” he says. “But no. I cannot uproot my family."

“Of course. I understand,” Thor says. A silence descends as the adults grapple with the implications of what his parting now will mean. When one of the girls sidles up shyly to the table, perhaps sensing the melancholy, Thor attempts to lighten the mood. “So, tell me about your lives here. What do you farm, what is it you do for enjoyment?”

“We have a cow,” pipes up the older girl from the rug, who seems to do enough talking for the both of them. “Her name’s Humbla, do you want to see?”

He gives the younger girl, Tola, an encouraging smile when she meets his eye around her mother’s shoulder.

“I would love to,” he says. Extending a hand, “Would you be so good as to show me?”

With a little nudge from her mother, Tola nods, and with her sister chattering in the front, she leads him around to the barn.

 

* * *

 

As heartening as it is to see his old friend, Thor eventually grows eager to be back on the road once more. Hogun, sensing this, beckons him outside and shows him to the stables, where Sleipnir has been groomed and fed until his grey coat positively shines. In fact, the horse seems almost reluctant to leave, but with a cluck of his tongue Thor leads him along.

He bids farewell to Ashild and the children, and Hogun accompanies him out to the road. As he settles into Sleipnir’s saddle once more, Thor summons as best a smile as he can, preparing to bid his longtime friend a final farewell.

“I am more grateful to have seen you once more than I can say,” he says. “You have Asgard’s respect, and her thanks, forever— as well as my own. You shall not be forgotten in the halls of Valhalla.”

Hogun gives him a small smile in return. “I wish you well, my friend,” he says, “Give my regards to Loki.”

“I shall,” Thor says.

As Sleipnir carries him away, Thor cranes his neck to keep the cottage in view until Hogun and his family are no more than miniscule specks, waving distantly against the trees.

 

* * *

 

Thor has much to think on as he continues toward Eljudnir.

As much as he had enjoyed the visit with his friend, it had put several doubts in his mind regarding his brother he had not previously considered.

Primarily, it troubles him that he had not considered the possibility that Loki might prefer to remain in Hel. The underlying assumption of this entire journey has been that even one so obstinate as his brother, if given the means to return to the living, would accept it without hesitation. But now that he’s spoken to Hogun, seen the life he’s established for himself, and it seems conceivable, probable, even, that Loki may feel the same. As evidenced on Sakaar, his brother thrives best in discord, and his motives have always been so far from Thor’s understanding that it’s entirely possible he might view his arrival here as an opportunity rather than a punishment.

No matter. He shakes his head at himself. If Loki should prefer to stay, he must respect that decision regardless of the pain it would cause him. His brother deserves his own agency— but also to know that Thor is willing to bear him back should he desire it.

He rides on, past clustered huts and towering mansions alike. Once, he comes upon a field thick with grass flattened down by years of trampling. In the distance, two armies meet upon a wide dirt plain, crashing together with a noise like thunder and then resettling, moving apart only to come back together aga

It’s nearing dusk on the third day by the time he alights at Helreginn’s hall. Eljudnir is a massive building, constructed of the same marble as Hel’s gate; heavy white arches twined through with grey, the suggestion of a snowstorm. When his boot alights on the threshold, an unpleasant feeling tingles at the base of his spine, as though the architecture itself is aware he does not belong. He shoulders the feeling and presses on, minding his step over the raised entryway.

In the middle of the rounded foyer looms a half-crumbling statue clearly in the form of his elder sister, her hands extended with their twin blades. As he passes, he’s unable to keep himself from aiming a lazy kick at her left knee, creating a long crack the marble. Behind him, he hears it as several chunks of marble tumble to the floor.

As he continues on the sound of voices grows increasingly louder, and he follows them through the byzantine halls. After a time a feasting room opens up before him, the elegant doorway leading up to a high, domed ceiling.

He searches the crowd, heart quickening in his chest. When he finally finds his brother, he ceases to breathe altogether.

Loki is seated at the right hand of the frost giant Thor takes to be Helreginn, looking as well as he’s ever seen him. His hair is smooth and black, appearing, for once, freshly washed. The sharp cut of his face is just the same as in life, as are the slim upturned mouth, the pointed chin. The only indication of his grim deliverance to this land encircle his throat in nearly-imperceptible purple marks. Thor tears his gaze away.

The diners have not yet noticed him hovering on the fringe of their company, and he clears his throat. One by one each guest turns toward him, a hush descending as they curiously examine the intrusion.

Last of all to notice is his brother Loki. The moment he too acknowledges the interruption and turns his head seems to Thor extended, a thousand years for the completion of that one simple movement.

Spotting him, mouth falls open in a little _Oh,_ the half-empty goblet dangling from his hand.

Silence alone reigns as Thor stands before the long curving table.

Finally the frost giant beside his brother stands, several heads taller than Thor himself.

“What is the meaning of this?” Helreginn demands, red eyes burning. “Who dares intrude upon this sacred hall?”

“It is I, Thor,” he answers, hoping the room cannot hear how fiercely his heart beats. Sparks of tension flicker at his fingertips. “Odin-Son, God of Thunder.” He looks at Loki, whose expression of utter shock might be comical, if the situation were not as it is. “King of Asgard.”

For the barest moment, sharp green eyes meet a single brown. And then a clatter as the goblet slips fully from Loki’s fingers to the floor, curving a wide arc until it comes to rest at Thor’s feet.

“Brother,” he says, then, to the stunned silence. “I have come to bring you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, now we're getting to the good stuff! I'm really excited to finally get to write the Thor & Loki interactions I crave.
> 
> About Hogun being in Hel rather than in Valhalla-- originally I was going to have Thor meet Fandral in Hel, but when I was doing some research I found that, according to Marvel, Hogun is not originally from Asgard, but came as a refugee when his planet was attacked. So sadly he, like Loki, would not have access to Valhalla. I hope I've somewhat softened that blow with adding a family to keep him company, I couldn't bear to think of him there all alone.
> 
> If you enjoyed this or have constructive criticism, please let me know! :)


	3. blue skies from pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, guys. here we are. FINALLY, after a month i was able to get this monster of a chapter up. i'm so sorry it took so long, but at the moment i'm juggling two jobs, studying for the GRE, grad school applications, and super annoying on-and-off health problems. D:
> 
> but enough about me!! i appreciate every single one of you who has commented, left kudos, or bookmarked. i hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!! :) i also hope there aren't too many mistakes or typos. i think my eyes are broken.

As his words begin to ripple through the guests, the hall quickly descends into disorder. From all directions heads turn to gape at the interloper, and all merriment ceases as those present start to nudge one another in alarm. At the head of the table Helreginn draws himself up to his full height, sharp teeth bared in aggravation.

Thor himself absorbs little, caring only for his brother’s reaction. To his dismay Loki does not appear abundantly pleased to see him, the prevailing expression on his face being undisguised shock, increasingly suffused with dismay. He does not make any movement to greet or otherwise approach Thor, so still in his seat he could easily take his place among the marble statues. When he finally speaks, Thor is perhaps the only one who hears it— one single, strangled word.

_“Thor?”_

With a sweep of his hand, Helreginn gestures for silence. Almost instantly the noise drops to the odd whisper and belated gasp, and all eyes, including Thor’s, turn to him.

“You show great arrogance, Son of Odin, intruding upon Helheim in this way,” he rumbles, in a voice so low and deep it might have come from the very bowels of the earth. He cuts an imposing figure, the deep blue of his skin offset both by the pale grey of Eljudnir’s walls. “You dare enter into my hall,” he says, “and command the dead as you would the living, deny me my jurisdiction? How do you expect to justify such an act of aggression?”

A thrill of nerves runs threads its way through Thor as the eyes of the room once again turn toward him. Though he is no stranger to public consideration, it has been long since he has last felt its effects so acutely. As Loki’s bright green eyes bore into him, he takes a breath and summons every regal aspect he can muster.

“I must ask your pardon for my trespasses, mighty Helreginn,” he says, slowly, his voice equally pitched even as his head inclines in deference. Treading further into the hall, “I understand my presence here must be alarming, insofar as it is both unnatural and unannounced, but I assure you, I have no quarrel with you, nor do I seek your throne or your realm. I have come for one reason and one alone: the retrieval of my brother, Loki.” He casts a quick glance to the side, but his gaze is carefully avoided. “Deliver him to me peacefully, and I will gladly remove myself from your sight.”

Helreginn’s knife-thin mouth widens in a disbelieving grimace. “And on whose authority do you think to make such demands, Asgardian? The dead here are in my rightful possession.”

“My own,” he says, evenly. Loki’s head jerks up. “My brother is first and foremost a citizen of Asgard, and between us lies an unsettled debt. As King, I have the right to claim unfinished business with him.”

“He was a citizen of Asgard,” Helreginn growls, the table now groaning under his weight, “but as he now resides here, he is subject to my rule and mine alone.”

“If the individual in question may speak—?” Loki begins, finally rising. His voice is equal parts exasperation and apprehension, and it is swiftly interrupted by Thor’s, _“No.”_

“You may not,” says Helreginn, a moment after. Loki’s lips curl into a frown, but he is silent.

Thor turns back to the frost giant. “Dead or alive,” he continues, firmly, “the outstanding debt owed Loki’s person places him under my authority. I am unwilling to concede this point.” After a pause, “I do not wish to fight you. But I will, if I must.”

What was mere discomfort in the faces of the guests is quickly replaced by outright anxiety. Some even appear to consider the prospect of disappearing under the long dining table until the drama resolves— but when Thor looks to Loki, his brother’s expression reveals little.

Without warning Helreginn skirts the long table, approaching him in a few strides. Jagged blue features predatory, he casts a discerning eye over Thor, then prowls tauntingly behind his back, so close that the air at his exposed neck chills.

“And what have you to say in response to this?” Helreginn challenges Loki, over Thor’s shoulder. “Have you any words of defense on behalf of your insolent brother?”

“In truth, I know not what to say,” Loki says, warily. “I too was unaware of his coming.”

“So this is an unsanctioned mission, then,” he replies, sounding vaguely smug. “How quaint.” To Thor, “Your nerve is a credit to your race, I’ll allow that much. Perhaps I will forgo punishment and simply smite you where you stand.”

“You are certainly welcome to try,” Thor says, again unsuccessfully trying to meet his brother’s eyes. “But I’ll hazard you’ll find it quite difficult.”  
Helreginn’s jaw shuts so tightly Thor hears it click. “Do not tempt me, boy,” he says. Leaning in so close his icy breath tickles Thor’s neck, “I could squeeze the life from your body even as your brain matter dribbles out your ears.”

“Gentlemen,” Loki cuts in. At the sharpness in his tone their heads swivel in unison.

Adopting a more solicitous tone to address Helreginn, “Beg pardon, Great One,” his brother says, head dipped low even as his hands fist at his sides, “I’m afraid I truly must insist upon a recess. My brother is a foreigner here, and is not familiar with our statutes of behavior.”

Thor opens his mouth to protest, but Loki throws up a hand in warning.

“As such,” he continues, eyes fixed firmly on the frost giant, “I should like to confer with him on the matter before anything is discussed further. I’m certain you understand.”

Unexpectedly, something of the tension in Helreginn eases, and despite himself Thor nearly smiles. How familiar his brother’s silver tongue is, how mystifying even now. Whether by magic or personal magnetism, Loki has long possessed the means of drawing the listener in, of making his thoughts their thoughts— a talent at which Thor himself can only marvel, being blessed with more primitive gifts himself.

“I will allow it,” says Helreginn, after a pause, though there’s a dangerous glint in his eye— he’s far from taken in. “So long as you utilize this time to ensure your brother sees reason.”

“Oh, indeed,” Loki says, and when he smiles his teeth gleam sharp and even. “You have my utmost assurance.”

When he finally meets Thor’s eyes, just for the barest moment, something in them roils so fiercely that Thor’s stomach briefly unsettles.

“We shall reconvene here one day hence, at nightfall,” says Helreginn, to Thor. “I know not the customs of Asgard, but in Helheim we resolve grievances through a system of hearings— a courtesy I will grant for your brother’s sake. Failure to present yourself, or the commission of acts which conspire against my charge may be met with… _unfortunate_ consequences.” To Loki: “You are dismissed.”

He turns his back on Thor, largely blue hands clasped tightly. The discussion finished, he near-saunters away to reclaim his seat at the table.

Loki strides from the hall without looking back.

For a moment it is all Thor can do to watch in consternation as his brother departs without a single backward glance. Then, rousing himself, he hefts Stormbreaker and follows Loki out, having to double his speed to match his brother’s long steps.

When they’re a sufficient distance away— “You know,” he says, striving for levity, “that did not go as badly as I expected.”

Loki does not respond, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

After a long pause, Thor clears his throat. “I said, I don’t think—“

“I heard you.”

The words are brisk above the tramping of their boots on the stones, and as cold as the evening air. Despite Thor’s efforts to close the distance between them, Loki’s stiff pace keeps him a few paces behind.

When his brother still refuses to look at him, a knot of concern begins to form in his gut.

“Loki…” Thor starts.

“Don’t,” he snaps. He slams through the double doors that lead to the outside with such force that they spring back on their hinges, nearly colliding with Thor’s face.

Sleipnir’s ears perk up in interest as Thor hastily unties him, their three eyes together on Loki’s retreating form. At the intersection of one of the smaller roads with the main, he turns, approaching one of the proud mansions bordering Eljudnir. By the time he disappears within the entryway, Thor is only a few steps behind; securing Sleipnir once again — this time to the sapling just beyond the entryway — he admonishes, “Wait here.”

He ascends the front steps to find the apartments cool and dark, with graceful mahogany beams arching overhead. Winding through the shadowed halls, he peers into each chamber individually until finally he locates Loki in the second-level sitting room. As the downstairs had been, it’s finely outfitted, all curving wooden furniture and dark-paneled walls, but these are of comparatively little interest when his deceased brother stands mere meters away.

As he hovers in the doorway, suddenly uncertain, Loki stands at a long side table, surveying an impressive array of drink. Unstopping a decanter containing a deep golden alcohol, he pours himself a full goblet, then proceeds to drain in it one long swill.

The movement lifts his bruised throat to the light, and Thor swallows hard.

“Brother,” he says, then, low. “You must speak to me sometime.”

Over the rim of his glass Loki shoots him an icy look, holding up a hand as he lowers it again to measure another drink. He swallows that as well, smacking his lips in exaggerated satisfaction. He seems on the verge of preparing a third when Thor says, louder, _“Loki.”_

The goblet clatters ungracefully Loki he slaps it to the table. “What?”

Thor’s hands clench at his sides. “Will you not even acknowledge me?”

“I hardly know what you mean,” comes the sardonic reply. “I acknowledge you this very moment.”

When his eyes meet Thor’s again, the half-dark room flickers momentarily with their respective emotion.

“You know well what I mean.” Thor frowns, all expectations of a joyful reunion painfully discarded. It is clear his brother harbors a deep resentment at his presence here, but he cannot begin to untangle the reason. “Loki,” he says, tempering his tone slightly, “what have I done to anger you so?”

Loki scoffs, pouring himself that third drink.

“You mean, other than traipsing into Helheim like a vaunting conqueror, provoking the reigning monarch and generally creating disorder?” he asks, waspishly. “For one, your haircut is atrocious.”

Self-consciously, Thor’s hand comes up to graze his short hair of its own volition. Though in the time that has passed since Sakaar it would normally have grown out, he’s kept it close to his head— a physical reminder that his old life has passed away, and his old self with it.

“Pardon me, Brother,” he says, hardening his voice to disguise the hurt, “for thinking you might be happy to see me.”

Loki’s brows shoot up into his hairline. “Happy to see you?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “Thor, _here_?”

“Why not here?” he argues. He had forgotten, it seems, in the grief of the past year, just how vexing his brother could be, how inscrutable his motives. “Where else would I have found you?”

_“You should not have tried to find me at all!”_

Loki’s voice near-triples in volume, reflecting from the dark walls as roundly as if they stood upon a theater stage. Stunned by the vehemence of this declaration, and by the outright fury unmasked in his brother’s face, Thor is rendered momentarily silent.

Across the room, Loki struggles to regain his composure.

“You should not have come,” he says, finally, voice taught and controlled once more. His fingers curl around the fragile stem of his goblet. “If you had even the faintest idea—“ He breaks off, nostrils flaring.

“The faintest idea of what, Loki?” Suddenly Thor feels thrice his age, impossibly weighed down by all he cannot begin to understand. Regardless of his best intentions, when it comes to his brother it seems all he is capable of is vast misjudgement. “Of how little you care to see me? I can assure you,” he says, “of that I am beginning to have an inkling.”

Hot tears prick unbidden at the back of his eye as he stares at the floor, jaw clenched so tight he feels his teeth grind in his head.

Loki sighs, a slow huff of breath. “Oh, you’re a fool,” he says, but the words hold little malice. “Thor, why are you here?”

It’s Thor’s turn to scoff; the moisture having collected in his nose and throat make it a wet sound. “Why do you think?”

“I really could not say,” Loki shoots back, “since I was at no point included in this undertaking.” Replacing the goblet on the table, “But if I had to make a guess, informed as I am as to your tendency toward martyrdom, I might say you wish to correct a perceived wrong you yourself had no part in.”

“A perceived—” Thor’s fingers tighten into fists so sharply the nails dig into his palms. “You were killed before my eyes!”

At this Loki simply laughs, pointed and unmerciful. “At none’s fault but my own,” he says. Mouth twitching, though something like fear flickers in his eyes, “And perhaps that of Thanos.”

Thor takes a heavy step toward him, finger outstretched. “Do not jest of such horror,” he growls, even as he fights to keep his voice steady. “I see it enough in dreams.”

Loki’s eyes narrow as he takes him in. For the first time his look lingers, and he seems to absorb the anguish, the wild eye and shaking hands. The tense line of his shoulders falls, and what he says next Thor could not have been less prepared for.

“Forgive me,” he sighs, at length. Eyes pinched tight, his long fingers come up to rub at his forehead as though to stave off a headache. “I do not mean to argue. It is seems provocation is simply too ingrained in me, where you are concerned.” His mouth curves in an apologetic smile. Shaking his head, “You gave me such a fright, you know. Storming into Eljudnir like that. For a moment, I thought...”

Thor swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “I was not aware I was yet capable of frightening you.”

Loki gives him a thin smile. “Only in your acts of extreme fecklessness,” he says. “To the numbers of which I believe we may add this.”

Thor cannot help as the knot in his stomach begins to ease. “Are you not familiar with them by now, Brother?” he asks, with a tentative smile of his own.

“After all these years,” he says, shaking his head, “I suppose I should be.” He extends the decanter, a peace-offering of sorts.

Thor bypasses it entirely, stepping closer to lay his hand in the familiar notch along his brother’s neck, avoiding the ugly bruises. Loki’s eyes flicker at the familiar gesture, something close to melancholy in his expression.

“What would you have had me do?” Thor asks, softly, aligning his thumb along Loki’s neck. “Abandon you to this Norns-forsaken wasteland?”

Loki simply dips his chin, a wry twist to his mouth. “Would not that have been best for everyone involved?”

If he had chosen that moment to run him through with a dagger, he could not have injured Thor more.

“Of course not,” he gets out, his hand unintentionally tightening, making Loki flinch. “I know we have had our differences— but, Loki, I could not forget you. Not now, not ever.” He gives him a gentle shake. “You are my brother.”

Loki shrugs. “Do not pretend I am so greatly missed,” he says, vainly attempting to shrug out from under Thor’s hand. “Asgard does not weep for me, of that I am sure. Like as not, they resent me as the source of your absence.” Misreading Thor’s sudden silence for assent, “Ah. They do.”

Thor barely hears it over the sudden rush of blood to his ears. His eye fixes on a point over Loki’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” his brother asks, warily, when he fails to respond. Only after Thor reluctantly meets his gaze does understanding dawn on his face, quickly followed by horror. Extricating himself from Thor’s grasp— “No.”

“Loki,” Thor begins, steeling himself.

“ _No_ ,” his brother repeats, equally quiet. Eyes screwed shut as though in pain, he digs his thumbs into the sockets for a long time before reopening them. “How?”

“The ship was destroyed,” Thor says, low and quick, his head bowed as though in shame. “After you— After Thanos made his exit, the fires raged too high.”

He swallows hard, tasting in memory the dust and the ash. “It burst apart.”

“And the people?” His voice is little more than a whisper.

Thor simply shakes his head.

Loki half-falls back against the side table, looking as though he might be sick. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, as though struck mute. When Thor attempts to take a step toward him, he retreats so swiftly his hip catches the edge of the table, drawing it along the floor with a screech.

“I am sorry,” Thor says, his hands hanging empty at his sides. Not knowing what else to say. “I had hoped to deliver the news at a more appropriate time.”

Loki does not reply, his eyes on the night outside, lips pressed tightly together.

“I do not blame you,” Thor continues, gently, “if that is your concern.”

“You should,” he murmurs. After a pause, still half-disbelieving— “ _Everyone_?”

Thor looks on him sadly. “I am sorry,” he repeats, helplessly. “You did as much for them as any of us.”

At this Loki’s mouth twitches, utterly cheerless. “There you go again,” he says, “apologizing for that which is not your fault.”

A faint tremor runs below the dry words, and still he does not raise his head.

“It was not yours, either,” argues Thor. Then, shifting into a plea, “Loki, come back with me.” The words spill from him unbidden, making his brother frown. “We can make this right. Return home with me— stand by my side once again. We’ll travel together, traverse the Nine Realms as we once did.”

“You forget,” Loki says, softly, “our home no longer exists.” _Thanks to us_ is unspoken but understood.

“To Midgard, then,” he counters, spreading his hands. Taking a step closer. “There are many sights yet unseen not the least of which is the land our father showed us.”

Loki appears unconvinced. He runs a finger around the rim of his neglected glass, making the metal sing. “Are you certain that’s the wisest course of action?” he asks, slowly. “Bringing me back from the dead?”

Thor bites the inside of his cheek, struggling to control his rising exasperation. God of Mischief he may be, but sometimes it seems Loki’s singular purpose is to increase the difficulty in Thor’s life alone.

“If not, are you content to stay?” is all he asks, folding his arms.

In truth, he hardly knows how to answer Loki’s question. He had heard the objections of Stark and others to the idea of his brother’s resurrection, but before now had lacked the time — and the willingness, perhaps — to consider the ramifications himself. When the vǫlva had made her offer he had been spurred to accept by the desperation of his grief, the depth of his loss, rather than the careful weighing of cost. But this is unsurprising; he has never possessed the capacity for impartiality where Loki is involved. In any case, he thinks, with some relief, he is too far along this path to turn back now.

Loki opens his mouth to speak. Just as swiftly he closes it again, his eyes roaming over the carpet as he considers. Thor can practically see the wheels in his delicate mind turning. Finally, “If I agree to this harebrained plan,” he says, little more than a sigh, “will you cease harassing me about it?”

He appears able to muster only the smallest of smiles, but still Thor nods so rapidly he gives himself a momentary headache. “I swear it,” he pledges. “Brother—“

“Ah-ah.” Loki holds up a hand, but the affection in his voice is badly disguised. “You swore.”

Reaching for the outstretched hand,Thor closes the distance, drawing him by the wrist into their first embrace since the _Statesman_. There’s a little _Oof_ as Loki collides with his chest with more force than intended, and his brother makes a noise of joint surprise and irritation— yet he does not pull away.

He does not readily return the embrace, either, but Thor had not expected him to. It is enough to hold him tightly, to feel his dead heart beating through the leather of his clothes. His temple is cool where it rests against Thor’s.

“I swear to you, Brother,” Thor murmurs, unable to help himself, “I will see you safely out of Hel.”

“Sentimental oaf,” Loki murmurs, the huff of his breath tickling Thor’s neck. But a moment later, his hand comes up, ever so cautious, to rest at Thor’s shoulder blade, something in Thor’s chest settles into place.

 

 

* * *

 

They bunk together that night for the first time since childhood.

Not wanting to impose, Thor had at first made vague protests about departing to find traveler’s lodging— but at them Loki had simply scoffed, noting the unsuitable nature of Hel for tourism as well as the unused chambers that populated the mansion.

“This house possesses so many rooms,” he had said, wryly, “we hardly need see one another if we wished it.”

But in the end they had been each as loathe to leave one another as they had been to admit it, and Thor had untacked Sleipnir on the ground behind the house. The horse had settled down with nary a complaint, having as much room as he could want for wandering and grass enough for grazing.

Thus the only problem faced had been Thor’s lack of suitable nightclothes. Since his arrival he had needed none, having slept in the open in his armor, but Loki had threatened to rescind the invitation should he even consider violating his own furniture in such a way.

It is like this he comes to lie outfitted, somewhat ridiculously, in borrowed nightclothes.

“Shut up,” he says, when Loki snickers, squirming uncomfortably against the garments several sizes too small. He tugs self-consciously at the shirt, which ends several inches above his hips, and at the trousers, the waistband of which is stretched nearly beyond capacity. “What use are you as a seidmadr,” he grumbles, then, “if you are incapable of elongating simple fabric a few inches?”

“Oh, I am capable,” Loki assures him, amused, folding his hands behind his head on the pillow, “but that would be so much less entertaining, wouldn’t it?”

Thor makes a grab for him, but he rolls neatly out of reach.

“You’re a child,” he sniffs, returning to his book by the light of the bedside candle. A moment later, however, Thor is gifted several inches of breathing room in the form of extra fabric.

They pass perhaps half an hour in comfortable silence before they are both overcome by the exhaustion of the day. Thor’s eye has begun to droop even before Loki leans over to blow out the candle.

He’s nearly asleep altogether when,  
“Thor?”

He snuffles, drawing a hand over his eyes. “Hmm?”

“Do you ever tire of it?” Loki asks, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. As though sensing Thor’s puzzlement, “Always having to rescue me.”

There’s an edge to his voice, a vulnerability seldom expressed. The sort that, if answered wrong, might end Thor on the stinging edge of a dagger.

Fortunately for him, there is just one answer.

“Never, Brother.”

Loki makes a soft sound that may be a snort or perhaps a sigh. The sheets rustle as he turns over onto his side, and for several minutes the only noise is their breathing, and the lonely cries of the night creatures outside.

Then, “Loki?” Thor asks, to the dark.

A definite sigh this time. “Yes?”

_Are you happy here?_ He opens his mouth, but can’t seem to force the words out.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, finally. Turning his face into the pillow, “I’ve forgotten what I meant to ask.”

“Go to sleep, Thor,” Loki says, a note of melancholy lingering under the exasperation.

They do not speak again, and soon enough Thor retraces the slow descent into unconsciousness. Upon the bed they lie with their backs to one another, and like this they sleep, the living and the dead.

 

 

* * *

 

When Thor wakes, Loki’s side of the bed is empty.

He cracks opens his eye to find the sun already high in the sky, sending tawny light in through the window. From the angle of the rays he does not bother to stretch a hand across to check if the indentation in the sheets is fresh; Loki has always been an early riser.

For a moment he allows himself to rest, luxuriating in the give of the mattress and the silky feel of the sheets after several nights on the cold ground. Were he to close his eyes, the physical comfort of it might put him back on Asgard; instead, he reluctantly pushes up onto his elbows. In doing so his body protests, the strain of the journey finally catching up with him.

Daytime lends a better view of the chamber, and he cranes his neck to peer about. In taste it appears equal to the handful of other rooms he had passed in the mansion, affluent but lacking in personal touch. Briefly he wonders if these decorations are Loki’s doing, or if the rooms had once belonged to another.

Soon overcome by the call of several bodily needs — not the least of which is hunger — he staggers up from the bed on aching legs and emerges into the hall.

“Loki?” he calls, voice rough from sleep.

“In here,” comes the languid reply, which he follows until the hall opens up into a small library. Before the unlit hearth, Loki stretches catlike upon a low futon, dusty tome in hand.

It is a sight so familiar Thor must pause to take it in, chest aching with the weight of memory. Many a time had he entered the palace library or his brother’s chambers to find him just like this— his nose deep in a book, dark hair tied back to prevent it from falling into his face as he diligently copied his runes. Sharp eyes narrowed over the page as though to limit himself to a single word at a time, one long finger tracing the minute script so as not to lose his place.

Thor for his part had only barely tolerated his studies, tapping his foot endlessly on the stone until released to rejoin Sif and the Warriors Three; now that the library is no more, he feels a pant of regret at not having made a greater effort to familiarize himself with its contents.

“Good morning, Brother,” Loki drawls, without looking up, rousing him from his thoughts. “Or should I say, afternoon.”

Thor blinks. The thick crimson curtains have been pulled aside to maximize the natural light, and his eye waters slightly, not yet having adjusted to the brightness. “Afternoon?” he asks, bewildered. “How long did I sleep?”

“Approximately fifteen-and-a-half hours,” his brother informs him, nose wrinkling in disapproval. Turning a stern eye on him, “Honestly, Thor, when last had you rested?”

“Not so long ago,” he defends. Thinking back, “It must have been, er…” He pauses. “Early yesterday, just before I met with Hogun.”

He realizes belatedly the mention of their former comrade might dredge up feelings unpleasant for his brother, but hardly reacts. “Hogun is here?” he asks, neutrally.

Thor nods. “His family as well.”

Loki lips press together. “Ah.” He looks away.

The resulting silence is gratefully broken by the grumbling of Thor’s stomach. Loki rolls his eyes, but the tension abates as quickly as it had come, and he nudges the provisions on the low table nearer. As Thor seats himself opposite, snags a piece of fruit roughly similar in size and shape to a Midgardian peach as well as a slice of hearty grain bread, Loki says, “This morning I have had Sleipnir brought to the common stables, so you needn’t worry over him for now.” His mouth quirks. “Not that you appear mightily disturbed over his condition at the moment.”

Guiltily, Thor’s chewing halts, his head darting up. “Thank you,” he says, around a mouthful of bread. He truly hadn’t intended to sleep so late, but it appears his body had required the rest. Loathe as he is to admit it, it is not as easy as it had once been to journey so roughly.

“Well, I figured at least one of us should have a care for the poor beast,” Loki replies, easily. Closing the book in his lap, leaning forward, “Though I am quite curious, Brother,” he says, “how _ever_ did you manage to obtain him?” Even when he was alive, Father hardly cared to part with his favored steed.”

Tearing off a bite of fruit with his teeth, Thor says, doubtful, “It is a bit of a complicated tale.”

Loki spreads wide his hands, reclining once again on the futon. “Fortunately for you,” he says, “I’ve nothing but time.” A familiar glint in his eye, “If you tell me you managed to steal him out of Valhalla, I’ll be most impressed.”

Thor chuckles. “Nothing of the sort, I’m afraid,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Loki frowns at his manners, but says nothing. Swallowing ungracefully, “No, I met a vǫlva,” he says. “Or, she found me. She was the one who summoned Sleipnir. Said Father had loaned him to us.”

His brother’s dark brows arch in surprise. “I was under the impression the vǫlur had all gone,” he says, after a moment.

“As was I,” Thor says, with a shrug. “But apparently there is at least one yet extant.”

“And how exactly was it that you came across her?” Loki asks, eyes narrowing. “You were just minding your own business, when suddenly…?”

“Yes.” Thor nods. “As I said, I was unaware any of her ilk still existed. She approached me in New York, offering safe passage to Niflheim. Naturally,” he says, with a small smile, “I accepted.”

“Just like that?” Loki is skeptical. “Merely out of the goodness of her heart?”

“Well…” Thor hesitates, not wanting to reveal more than he should. “I incurred a small charge, so to speak,” he hedges. “But it was nothing I could not pay.”

The lines around Loki’s mouth deepen, as though he knows Thor is leaving something out, but all he says is, “How fortunate.”

“And I see you yourself have made good use of your time as well,” Thor remarks, seeking a safer conversational topic. Settling back in his own chair, “Your distinguished seating in the hall did not escape my notice.”

That Loki had finessed his way into a position of influence here, as he had in Sakaar, is hardly surprising. Since early childhood his brother had shown a talent for social maneuvering. A natural sycophant, he seemed to sense intuitively those weak spots in a person’s character that could be employed for his own purposes. Once Thor himself had become aware of its subtleties — after an embarrassing number of years and more schemes than could possibly be numbered — he had indeed wondered if his brother did not possess a shade of clairvoyance.

“Ah, that,” Loki says, dismissively. “Well, as you well know, it never hurts to be in the good graces of those in power.” Turning a severe eye on him, “Though I can hardly assume the security of those graces after your indecorous entry last night.”

Thor has the good grace to at least attempt an appearance of contrition. “My sincerest apologies, Brother,” he says, “I am certain that connection required no small effort.”

“You assume correctly,” Loki says, sternly.

“If you wish, you may tell him I am the adopted one,” Thor offers.

His brother snorts. Then, “Do not underestimate Helreginn,” he warns. “For all his appearance, he is a savvy negotiator and an even shrewder king. You would do well to adopt some humility around him for the remainder of your time here.”

“ _Our_ time here,” Thor corrects. Shrugging in a way he knows will rankle his brother, “I suppose I should.”

“You _should_ ,” says Loki, with obvious vexation. Then, “Regardless,” he says, peering out the window to gauge the sun’s position, “as much as I’d like to continue this lovely conversation, I’m afraid I have a business to attend to.”

“Business?” Thor’s brow draws together in alarm. “What kind of business?”

“The kind that does not concern you,” Loki says, fluidly unfolding himself from the futon.

“Ah,” says Thor, “my least favorite kind.” Invulnerable as his brother may be in death, fraternal instinct dictates any business in which he is involved has the potential to become unsavory. Half-hopeful, “I suppose you wouldn’t permit me to come along.”

Loki shoots him a look. “Certainly not. When will you begin to trust I am capable of handling my own affairs?”

“As soon as you stop getting into trouble.” Thor smiles broadly.

If Loki rolls his eyes, it is veiled in the momentary glimmer that envelops him, replacing his comfortable garments with his usual leather outfit.  
“I shall see you upon my return,” he says, pointedly, “and not before. I will not be long, but in the meantime, feel free to amuse yourself in exploration of the grounds.” Adjusting the fit of his sleeves around his wrists, “There is a lovely garden behind Eljudnir even you could not fail to admire.”

“You flatter me,” Thor says, dryly.

“Just try not to disturb any of the flora.” Loki pauses. “Helreginn can be rather… particular.”

Just before he reaches the door, he stops. “I nearly forgot.” Reaching into his pocket — cleverly disguised within the sleek fabric — he rummages for a moment before tossing a small object to Thor. “As you seem to have lost the previous one.”

Squinting at the object in his palm, Thor turns it over his hands. Slim and slightly oval, it’s constructed of a lightweight yet sturdy material that shines polished black under the light. An eyepiece, he realizes— a near-identical replica of his first one, though, of course, fitted for the opposite eye.

“Loki…” He trails off, holding it up to his good eye for better inspection. It’s excellent craftsmanship, elegant yet functional; already he can tell it will be far more comfortable than his inherited patch. Looking up, he presses it to his empty socket, where it stays without budging. “It is perfect,” he says, stunned at his brother’s ingenuity. “Thank you.”

Loki waves a hand, as though batting the praise away. “It is nothing,” he says, sounding vaguely discomfited. “At least now you may go out in public without fear of frightening others with that ugly wound.”

Thor chuckles before he can stop himself. How very like his brother, to misdirect genuine praise with a backhanded insult. Folding his hands before him, “I’m certain the people of Helheim will be very grateful,” he says. “I will be sure to direct their praise solely to you.”

Loki’s mouth twists, fondness shot through with annoyance. “All I ask in return is that you take special pains to keep this one—” He points to Thor’s prosthetic eye. “—in your head. Even I will not be able to help you should you lose your sight entirely.”

In response, Thor raises his right hand in an oath. “By Odin’s beard,” he says, feigning solemnity, “I swear I shall be as prudent with this eye as I am with all my other limbs.”

“How very reassuring,” Loki deadpans. “I shall see you in a bit.”

Before Thor can wish him well, the door shuts and the mansion is silent around him.

 

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later finds him deep within Eljudnir’s gardens.

Thor had attempted, initially, to remain indoors and wait on his brother’s return. It was the practical course of action, he had thought, as well as the one most likely to ease the anxiety that had returned as soon as Loki had been out of sight. But the restlessness in his limbs had ultimately rendered that impractical, and he had been driven outside to put the energy to use.

First — in large part to prove his brother’s earlier comments false — he had stopped by the stables to ensure Sleipnir’s continued comfort. Though it had been immediately apparent any worry had been unfounded: the horse had hardly stirred on his approach, munching contentedly on feed, his mane and tail having been brushed glossy and braided.

“I am aware this must be quite dull for you,” Thor had said, somewhat apologetically, resting his chin on the stall door, “as you are accustomed to near-constant campaigns. I am certain we will be on our way soon.”

But Sleipnir had simply chuffed, unconcerned as he’d lowered his head over the door, nudging at Thor’s breeches in the hopes of procuring more apples.

Thor had extended his empty hands up in regret, chuckling lightly. “None for you today,” he’d said. “My apologies.”

The horse had looked at him askance. Your brother had done me better, he had seemed to say.

“You’ll have to take that up with him,” he’d said, firmly. “Now. If I am to investigate Hel’s wildlife, would you care to join me?” He’d striven to keep the plea from his voice, but in truth he would have felt better with a companion — even one of the equine variety — at his side. Something of Hel’s general atmosphere, he’d found, unsettled him.

But the horse’s retreating hindquarters had told him all he’d needed to know, and thus he had set out alone in search of Eljudnir’s gardens.

They had come into view as soon as he had rounded the massive grey hall, sprawling out before him in climbing green, plotted into systems only bested by Frigga’s on Asgard. As he had drawn closer some of the delicate shapes had become familiar, and, before he’d known it, he’d wandered down the narrow paths to further admire their unearthly hues.

He finds himself now in the same activity, every few paces bending down to marvel at hardy herbs and fragrant blossoms alike. A few varieties he knows, or at least recognizes, though most of the knowledge he had once possessed on the subject is long since lost. The few he retains are essentials, either in healing or ritual, ones that his mother would sigh in Valhalla over if he ever managed to forget.

Thor ambles along, stretching his legs below the cold sun until the path terminates at the entrance to a hedge maze. Stopping to admire the rich green walls a moment, he cranes his neck in an attempt to spy the tops towering far overhead. Upon stepping inside, he finds the walkway wide enough to ensure the walls’ enclosure seems comfortable instead of close.

After perhaps half an hour’s walk the thick shrubs part to reveal in a central garden, complete with a burbling fountain. In contrast to the outside plots, in which the shrubs had been neatly trimmed but in no particular shape, the plants here form all manner of figures.

He’s just beginning to wonder over his brother’s dry comment on Helreginn’s landscaping preferences when he rounds the corner and nearly stumbles into the frost giant himself.

The broad blue back is turned to him, bent over in the pruning of a fern, and Thor is forced to stop so short he nearly trips. He takes in a quick breath; then, when the giant makes no move to turn around, he begins to retreat, thinking to slip back out the way he had come.

“Do stay, Asgardian,” the frost giant rumbles, then, his back still to Thor. “You and I have much to discuss.”

Thor goes still, the tips of his fingers crackling with anxious sparks. He says nothing, and Helreginn clips the last wilting leaf before turning to face him in all his towering height. He is dressed far more casually than he had been the night before, in only britches and rough brown gloves despite the chill.

“Good day,” says Thor, haltingly. “I apologize for having disturbed you, I was merely admiring the gardens.” At my brother’s behest, he nearly adds, but thinks better of it, not wanting to mention Loki unless he must.

Helreginn shakes his head. “You have not disturbed me,” he says, his voice oddly lacking in the enmity of the previous night. “In fact, you are the very one I had wanted to see.”

Thor’s brow furrows in confusion. “Me?” he asks, wondering briefly if the giant has confused him with another.

"You, Odinson,” Helreginn confirms. “I must confess, I find myself increasingly intrigued by the predicament in which you and your brother find yourselves.” Handing Thor a pair of shears, “Perhaps you can help me understand.”

Thor looks to the instrument in his hand, then back to Helreginn in an attempt to determine whether he is being facetious. But the frost giant’s expression does not change, and Thor thinks if he is willing to at least temporarily overlook his somewhat-ill-mannered arrival, Thor might as well take advantage.

“I can certainly try,” he says, slowly, approaching the shrub with caution. “What is it you wish to know?”

“My first question,” Helreginn begins, gesturing for Thor to trim the opposite side from which his own shears cut, “concerns how you arrived here. Niflheim is remote, and difficult to access without substantial power. Yet you seemed to find your way here with little hardship.”

“A vǫlva brought me,” Thor tells him. “We arranged a bargain for my passage, but it was her dark magic that brought me here.”

As Loki had, Helreginn appears surprised to hear of a seer still in existence. Then, more to himself than to Thor— “Gróa,” he mutters, in a tone of grudging respect. “Crafty as ever. I assume that is how you lost your eye?”

Startled, Thor pauses. “How did you know?”

“She is well-known for her… particular penchant for body parts,” he says. With a grimace, “You might consider yourself lucky the journey cost only an eye.”

Unable to help himself, Thor makes a face. Then, sobering again, “I would ask that you not mention this to my brother,” he says. “I would prefer he not worry over me.”

Truthfully, Loki would be more apt to shout at him than to worry, but Helreginn need not know that.

At this, the lines around the frost giant’s mouth deepens. “Yes,” he says, “you brother. He is the trouble, isn’t he?”

He returns to clipping at the shrub, and Thor does the same, waiting for elaboration.

“My chief confusion is this,” Helreginn says, after perhaps half a minute has passed. “For what purpose does an _ás_ — even one who calls himself brother — journey all the way to Hel merely to beg for the life of a jötunn?” His long mouth contorts, as though the words leave a sour taste in his mouth. “What use could an Asgardian have for a frost giant?”

Thor shakes his head. “It is in your estimation of our relationship that you err, good Helreginn,” he says. “A jötunn Loki may be, but first and foremost he is my brother. The two do not preclude one another.”

Helreginn gives him an appraising look. “Even if that brother is by race your natural enemy?”

Thor pauses. “I do not see it that way. In his aims Loki has oftentimes made himself my enemy, but I would not consider him so by race alone.”

“How enlightened.” Helreginn’s mouth curves, sardonic. “Who was it who taught you to think this way? Not your father, certainly.”

Shamed by the memory of his own prejudice, Thor shakes his head. “I was not always so equitable in my views,” he says, haltingly. “I only came to the conclusion myself after watching my brother react to his true parentage. It disturbed him greatly. He feared he had become monstrous, yet in him I saw naught but my younger brother.”

At this, Helreginn abandons altogether the pretense of gardening, his burning eyes steady on Thor. “It is all well and good to say such things,” he says, a distinct note of challenge in his voice, “when your brother is in appearance indistinguishable from a true Asgardian. But I wonder, would you still consider him your blood if he chose to parade around in the color of his birth?”

“He would,” Thor says, equally firmly. “Regardless of the form he chooses — _ás_ , frost giant, man, woman — he is my sibling.”

Though it has been several years now since his banishment, the horror of those days lives as vivid in Thor’s memory as if it had occurred the day before. In his mind’s eye he can still see Loki pace the inside of the S.H.I.E.L.D. cell, full of false sorrow and concealed rage as he reported Thor’s banishment permanent, can watch him founder and fall before his very eyes from the Bifrost, shattered by a pain all too real. Grief shines like a beacon from his green eyes, too bright even as he drives a dagger into Thor’s side atop Stark Tower; Thor thinks he’d give anything to go back, to fix the mistakes that had let his brother believe something so inconsequential as race could sabotage more than a millennium of fraternity.

Helreginn studies him a moment. Then, apparently satisfied by whatever honesty he finds in Thor’s face, he says, “Yesterday evening you spoke of a debt. Tell me of it.”

Instinctively, Thor’s stomach clenches, and he sets the neglected shears down on the low wall beside him as he searches for the proper words. Part of him balks at the idea of further revelation, the past day having already wrung him emotionally dry. At the same time, however, if this is what is required to bring his brother home, so be it. He had not come all this way to refuse to speak on Loki’s behalf.

“Has he mentioned how it was he came to be here?” he asks, eventually. “How his death came about?”

Helreginn inclines his head. “I believe he mentioned the Mad Titan.”

Thor smiles, mirthless. “Thanos. Yes.” He takes a breath, steeling himself. “What he was killed for my sake.”

Helreginn’s lips thin, but he makes no comment.

“We were pinned,” Thor continues, his eye unfocusing as he allows himself to be drawn back into the dust and parching ash. “I know not how, but Thanos had followed the Tesseract’s signature right to us. Asgard had just been destroyed, the only survivors huddled aboard a stolen cargo ship.” He pauses, throat suddenly dry, “Thanos asked Loki to make a trade. The Cube for my life.”

“Which he provided,” Helreginn surmises.

Thor nods. “Yes. He attempted to hold out, but he could not.” He pauses, looking down. “Thanos took the Tesseract, desiring the Space Stone within. He took it, and killed Loki anyway.”

“A terrible story,” Helreginn says, crossing his arms over his chest, “yet I fail to see how you could possibly owe him for that. Did he not invite such trouble himself when he retrieved the Cube from Asgard?”

Thor nearly smiles. “If you knew my brother as I do,” he says, “you would not blame him either. Such mischief is in his very nature, as unavoidable as…“ He casts around for a proper comparison. “As gossip to Ratatoskr, or a corpse to Nidhogg. I am long past casting blame for that. He regretted it the moment we were found out, sought to protect me. That is the debt I owe.”

“You must know he does not see it the same way,” Helreginn muses.

Thor shrugs. “My brother and I have hardly ever seen eye-to-eye. I have long since learned to work around it.”

“I see,” says Helreginn. Then, expression darkening, “There is no love lost between myself and the Titan, you can be certain of that. His deed affected the people of Jötunheim as much as it did elsewhere. But, there are many in Hel who are mourned as your brother is, yet will have no chance at resurrection. What have you to say to that?”

Thor simply shrugs. “If you will not be convinced,” he says, “then I cannot convince you. I know Loki’s worth, and his deserving to be permitted a second chance. If you will not assent, rest assured I will find another method to deliver him his due.” It is not directly a threat, but Helreginn’s face grows stony nonetheless.

“I suppose we shall see,” the giant says, drawing himself up to his full height. “I will take what you have said into consideration.”

He turns away, a clear dismissal that leaves Thor conflicted. Given Helreginn’s earlier cordiality, the most provident course of action may be to smooth over his hasty words in an attempt to foster a more lasting peace… yet he’s hardly inclined to retract a statement that had held only truth.

In the end, “I do not wish for any ill-will to come between us,” he says, to Helreginn’s back. Then, “I urge you to consider the matter carefully.”

He waits a moment, to see if Helreginn will reply. When he doesn’t, Thor sees fit to make his exit, heading back the way he had come.

 

 

* * *

 

After more wrong turns than he can number, Thor stumbles from the maze, chest tight and stomach grumbling with hunger.

When the massive walls give way to open sky, he notes with some shock the descending sun; his jaunt through the gardens had taken up much of the afternoon, and it now approaches suppertime. The trip back to Loki’s dwelling passes in a blur of green, the blooms he had so thoroughly admired going unnoticed as he runs through the conversation with Helreginn in his head.

He finds his brother waiting for him in the foyer, looking as unsettled as Thor feels. He appears no worse for wear, however, and the sight of his brother unharmed heartens Thor.

Loki offers little of his business proceedings, indicating only that its results are forthcoming, and Thor is too preoccupied to press him further. Together they suffer a tense meal of a fine meat that nonetheless tastes like sawdust in his mouth, each of them casting furtive glances when they think the other cannot see. As the hour draws near to the formal hearing, he wonders if perhaps he should mention how recently he had come upon Helreginn in the garden, and of the frost giant’s odd solicitude, but each time something prevents his speaking.

Loki too appears several times on the verge of speech, but in the end the only noises made between them are the occasional tense requests for silverware and the scrapings of utensils on their plates. There is so much to be said between them, and so little time in which to say it. Several times Thor’s palms grow so slick with anticipation he must wipe them on his breeches— something which would surely have disgusted his brother, had he not been deep in his own thoughts.

Oddly, Thor thinks he would feel leagues better if he were on his way to a simple duel, where the only arguments charged would be between either swords or fists. History itself dictates him more than capable of emerging the victor in such circumstances, but dialogue has always been Loki’s arena. If it were possible for his brother to merely talk his way out of Hel, surely he would have done so long ago.

By the time they have eaten and cleared the table, the sun borders the horizon, and it is nearly time to return to Eljudnir.

“You are certain the wise choice is not simply for you to magick us away?” Thor asks, only half-jesting, shifting Stormbreaker from hand to hand as he debates the merits of returning armed. Doubtless his doing so would be viewed as an act of aggression, but to go without may leave them vulnerable. “We could be halfway to the Gjallarbrú before anyone were the wiser.”

Loki looks at him askance, pausing in the adjustment of his cape. “Dear Brother,” he says, feigning surprise, “are you insisting we renege on our agreement and disappear into the night?”

Thor shrugs, setting Stormbreaker on the hall table. “If it you think it worth the effort,” he says, not rising to the bait, “yes.”

Loki considers the proposition, one finger splayed over his lips. “While I do enjoy a good moment of reprobacy every now and again, I’m not certain it would be,” he admits, sounding disappointed. “As Master of Hel, Helreginn wields a powerful magic in his own right. He would almost certainly know as soon as we left. We _may_ still escape him, but we also may not.” A frown deepens the planes of his face. “For once, it seems I must insist upon lawfulness.”

Thor shakes his head. “Your time here has made you dull, I see.”

The flicker of a smile passes over Loki’s face. Then, “Wait,” he says, as Thor moves for the door.

He stills as Loki comes near, unsure what to expect— but all his brother does is lift his hands to Thor’s shoulders, briskly straightening his cape.

“No matter the outcome,” he says, then, low and short, “You have made an admirable effort.” Meeting Thor’s eye, uncharacteristically grave, “Know that I am grateful regardless.”

Though there is more he wishes to say in response than could fill one of Loki’s dusty tones, Thor settles for placing a hand atop of his brother’s slim one, giving it a quick squeeze.

“Worry not, Brother,” he says, forcing a smile he does not altogether feel. “We shall have Helreginn see reason, you and I.”

“If we cannot—” Loki begins, but Thor cuts him off, unwilling even to discuss it.

“We _shall_ ,” he says, firmly, and Loki gently slips his hand away, stepping out into the unquiet night. “You’ll see.”

 

 

* * *

 

The hearing takes place in a different part of the hall than Thor had entered the night before, a long room with a vaulted ceiling and a raised platform at one end. A lone strip of carpet guides them through the gathering crowd to the edge of dais, upon which Helreginn sits in his vast marble throne.

He has once again donned his finer clothes, though these still leave his chest bare to Eljudnir’s chill air. As Thor approaches the frost giant gives no indication of their recent meeting, merely cracking his scepter twice upon the floor to silence the murmuring audience.

He begins swiftly and with little fanfare, hardly bothering to introduce the brothers, no doubt asumming anyone in attendance has already heard of the previous night’s excitement. The hearing opens with a restatement of facts for any who had not been present — how Loki had come to be here, Thor’s claim on him — some of which Thor himself had provided only hours earlier, and others which Loki must have at some point indicated.

Little is required from Thor during this part. On the rare occasion Helreginn asks for clarification, he provides it, assuming it is more for curious onlookers than it is for either of them. Loki speaks only a handful of words, standing stiffly beside him, but Thor cannot fault his taciturnity. His brother is a proud man, and it cannot be easy for him to stand before a court as the details of his death are read in a tone of near-indictment. It certainly is not easy for Thor.

It is only after a long while that Helreginn asks the singular question of importance, the one Thor has anticipated since his arrival, though perhaps without knowing.

“What reason do you give,” the frost giant rumbles, to Thor, “for asking me to spare this man’s life?”

Beside him, his brother drops his eyes to the floor. Without looking he knows Loki’s knuckles have clenched at his sides, white with nervous energy, but a strange calm has settled in Thor’s own limbs. He pauses a moment to collect the words to properly express his every reason for coming here, the desolate life he has led since the fell day he had lost everything.

“When first I arrived here,” he begins, slowly. A quick, interrupting smile for the audience,“I argued primarily for Loki’s sake. I told you of a debt owed him, one that could only be repaid in the restoration of his life.” He pauses. “This remains true, yet I have come to realize it is not the complete picture.”

“Go on,” says Helreginn, expression impassive.

“What I know now, having been here… is that I make this request for my own sake as much as his,” he says, meaning to inject authority into his tone, but managing only a quiet desperation. “He is the only family I have left. I have lived this past year without him, and without any of my home planet. If you should refuse to release him back to me—” His voice sticks in his throat. “I will be alone in the universe.”

“You are already alone,” says the frost giant in reply, though not unkindly. “Prince of Asgard he may be, but your brother is not an _ás_.” Surprise ripples through the court, and Thor twists around to frown at them. “Should I allow him to return with you, he will still be back here upon his next death.”

_His next death._ Thor’s fingernails dig into his palms. It is not an idea he seeks to linger on, but he manages, “Certainly no one may live forever, save the Norns. But it would give us time.”

Helreginn turns to Loki, “And what is your rationale as to why you should be allowed to return to Midgard?” he asks. “If memory serves, the last time you landed there, you left no small amount of damage in your wake.”

Loki’s smile is a quick thing, humorless. “In truth, I’m not certain I have one,” he says, then, his eyes lingering on Thor, “other than that I wish to.”

Thor’s heart thuds, once. “My brother is much changed since the Battle of New York,” he jumps in, eager to defend Loki’s better qualities. “He remains a trickster, yes, devious at the best of times—“

Loki lets out an indeterminate noise.

“—but he is hardly the man he once was,” Thor continues. “The people of Earth will be in no danger in his presence. I will vouch for him myself.”

“You are an admirable defender of your brother’s character,” Helreginn muses, steepling his fingers. “And I suppose it would be a shame for you to have forfeited your sight in vain.” The look he gives Thor is easy, smug.

Loki’s head whips around, green eyes so wide Thor flinches. “You _didn’t_ ,” he hisses, equal parts fury and horror. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I specifically asked you not to tell him,” Thor grits out, but the frost giant hardly reacts. To Loki, “I was— I am only trying to do what you did for me.”

“You are infuriating,” Loki says, through his teeth. “Are you capable of letting nothing lie?” To Helreginn, he grouses, “Do you see what I have to deal with? What you will be turning loose on the realms if I am barred from returning with him?”

“ _Do you see what I have to deal with?_ ” Thor mimics, descending momentarily into bickering beside his brother. Loki jostles his shoulder, hard. “I—"

“Silence, both of you,” orders the frost giant, and Thor’s jaw snaps shut so quickly it clicks. “I believe I have heard enough.” Then, addressing Loki as though the past few moments had not occurred, “Are you still in possession of the object we discussed?”

Loki tilts his head. “I am,” he says, cautiously, the anger retreating from his features.

“Object?” Thor asks, bewildered by the sudden change in topic.

“And do you still wish to uphold the bargain you sought to strike?” Helreginn asks, ignoring him entirely.

“I do,” says Loki, more firmly this time.

“What bargain?” Thor demands, his aggravation swiftly becoming apprehension. “Loki, what have you done?”

“Peace, Brother,” Loki admonishes, holding up a hand. Thor watches as he extends it further, into seemingly empty space. His long fingers curl dexterously, and then a humming blue object comes to rest in his outstretched palm.

Thor cannot even muster the energy to be shocked.

There, in his brother’s hand, lies the Casket of Ancient Winters.

“You—” He stops, unable to find the words. “Loki!”

His brother is far from apologetic.

“It appears,” Helreginn cuts in, his tone now distinctly amused, “the Tesseract was not the only object of value your brother carried off from Asgard.”

Gesturing to Loki, “Bring it here.”

For a moment his brother does not move. He simply stands with the Casket balanced in his hand, wearing an expression of near-regret as he gazes into its swirling depths. Where the flesh of his hand meets the Casket it takes on a similar hue, and Thor can barely breathe for wonder.

Helreginn clears his throat, and Loki seems to shake himself. Tearing his eyes away, he reluctantly ascends the steps to deposit it in the frost giant’s waiting hand.

An icy blast chills the hall, knocking Thor back a few steps and wavering the nearby candles. Helreginn passes it once, twice between his hands, as though weighing it, probing the enormous power. A slow smile cracks his stony face in half.

“Magnificent,” he says.

Loki returns to his place at Thor’s side, watching the frost giant carefully. “If I am not mistaken,” he says, slightly subdued, “our transaction is now complete, is it not?”

“It most certainly is,” says Helreginn, without taking his eyes from the Casket, which thrums like a living being in his hands. With a wave of his free hand, easy as can be, “You are free to go.”

_“What?”_ Thor Looking from Loki to Helreginn and back, “Both of us?”

“This was the deal your brother made,” the frost giant says, finally looking up. “The Casket for your freedom. Do you find it unsatisfactory?”

“Certainly not, Great One,” Loki cuts in, smoothly, his fingers digging into Thor’s arm, squelching any commentary he might have offered. “We’ll be on our way.”

Bending respectfully at the waist, he takes Thor by the elbow — the latter still dumb with shock — and leads him back the way they came. Entranced by his new possession, Helreginn pays them no mind, and the shocked murmurs of the crowd trail them or the heavy wooden doors.

As soon as they have stepped back out into the night air, Loki drops Thor’s arm and socks him hard in the shoulder.  
“Ow!” Thor exclaims, startled. He steps back, rubbing the injured spot. “What was that for?”

“You know very well what for!” Loki smacks him again, this time on the forearm, as though scolding a wayward pet. “You _idiot,_ what were you thinking?

Trading your eye to a witch for passage?” He raises hand again, but Thor catches his wrist, stopping the blow. “I will allow two strikes in good faith,” he says, “but no more.”

Loki glowers at him. At length his fist uncurls, and Thor lets it drop.

“I did not ask you to do that,” he says, low, rubbing his wrist where Thor had clenched it. “I did not want you to do that, Thor.”

“I’m aware,” Thor says, crossing his arms. “But neither did I ask _you_ to barter the most valuable relic of Jötunheim for our return home.” When Loki does not immediately reply, he prods, “Business, hm? Is that why he was so friendly to me earlier?”

But Loki lifts his chin, unapologetic. “Consider it a strategic move,” he says. “One I was only forced to make thanks to your foolish endeavor.”

_Foolish actions that have gotten you out of Hel_ , Thor nearly counters, before realizing Loki’s words do hold a speck of truth. Perhaps, he thinks, it would have been a better idea to come into Hel with the means to appeal to Helreginn’s greed, rather than threatening him. For it seems even the Master of Hel is capable of venality.

“Let me just ask you now, Brother,” he says, “is there anything else you managed to take from our father’s collection I should be aware of? The Tablet of Life and Time, perhaps? The Eternal Flame? Fenrir?”

Loki shoots him a look. “As you well know,” he sniffs, “that beautiful creature was killed during Ragnarok, when she fell into the abyss.” He pauses. “And the Tablet was much too heavy.”

Thor chuckles. “And the Flame too hot, I imagine.”

“Yes,” Loki admits. He glances at Thor, then allows himself an answering smile. “I am a frost giant, after all.”

“What of the Warlock’s Eye?” Thor prompts. “The Orb?”

Loki’s lips purse in thought. “Warlock’s… Hold on.” He slips his hand into the pocket of space where the Casket had presumably been, as though feeling around for something. “No,” he says, after a moment, “no Eye.”

“And the Orb?”

“Come now,” Loki grouches. “Are we not all allowed our secrets from time to time?”

“Not right now, you’re not,” Thor says.

“Fine.” He frowns. “For your information, I do not possess the Orb, either.”

Thor reaches out to slap his shoulder. “Good man,” he says, and Loki rolls his eyes. “Now, does it not feel better to have all secrets known between us?”

“If you believe all those together comprised even a tenth of my secrets,” Loki says, drily, “you’re more of a dunce than I thought.” But he lets Thor’s hand linger, and they fall silent, treading away from Hel’s hall for the last time.

 

 

* * *

 

They depart at dawn the following morning. At first, upon returning triumphant from Eljudnir, Thor had itched to collect Sleipnir that moment and depart with haste, but Loki had appealed to his practicality: the night was cold, and dark, and the hours gained would not be sufficient to warrant the discomfort. So they had stayed, packing the precious little his brother had accumulated during his stay before falling exhausted into sleep.

“Will it sadden you to leave?” Thor asks, from atop Sleipnir. The sun is just barely breaking over the treeline, casting a deceptively warm glow over the mansions surrounding the hall. Below him the horse dances, eager to be off.

Still standing beside them, surveying the dew-wet morning, Loki squints. “I’m not sure,” he says, finally. Then, “I don’t believe so, but one never knows until one has left, does he?”

“I suppose not,” Thor says, with a shrug. “At least now you will have the choice to return, should you wish to.”

“Yes,” Loki agrees. “that is true.” Rousing himself, he extends a hand for Thor to haul him up onto Sleipnir’s broad back. Once he is settled behind him, he says, a little longing as he looks out over his own mansion, “I imagine there are comparatively comfortable dwellings on Midgard.”

“There certainly are,” Thor agrees. Patting his brother’s knee patronizingly, “If you play nicely, Stark may even let you stay in one.”

He does not need to be watching to sense when Loki rolls his eyes. “I have little hope of that,” he says. “We did not part on the most pleasant of terms.”

“It is never too late to attempt to mend relationships, Brother,” Thor says, mildly. “Stark is a valuable ally to have, if you can win his trust.”

“I’m sure,” Loki says. Echoing Thor’s words with a sort of distanced curiosity, “I suppose now I have the choice.”

They sit in the growing light a moment, listening to the ash trees rustle in the faint wind, the birds calling to one another from their nests.

Then, “Ready?” Thor asks, swiveling around to peer at his brother. The world seems to swell around him, the colors brightening, the landscape sharpening, all manner of insect song rising too a fever pitch — but it may only be the blood rushing into his ears, readying him for flight.

After what seems an eternity, Loki nods. “Ready.”

“Hold on tight,” he cautions, and Loki lets out a little huff of breath, but winds his arms around Thor’s middle regardless. There is the barest press of Loki’s forehead to his back, and then Thor touches his heels to Sleipnir’s side and they are off, their father’s horse carrying them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading the most recent chapter, i hope you enjoyed this!!! i really worked my butt off to get it finished even this early, so if you enjoyed it or have constructive criticism (or notice any typos??) please let me know. <3 i appreciate every single one of you and i hope the thor-loki interactions were what you hoped to see!
> 
> also yes, i've extended the chapter count. why does this always happen to me!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I don't often (read: ever) attempt projects this big, so if you enjoyed it, or have constructive criticism/see a mistake, please let me know! Thank you so much!
> 
> I'm so excited for Chapter 2... Now that the exposition is over, the real fun can begin!


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